Sochi;

[sochi]

SOCHI

Sochi is not jealous by nature although she is possessive. It is a primal thing, a balance, and one that she finds is easy to navigate. She is content to let the wild things roam—to take her piece of the natural order and leave the rest to the winds and the fangs of the wolves—but once something has been made as her own, it is different. He had claimed her, told her that she was his, and she had done the same.

He is no longer something to be shared, to be passed around.

Or, at least, he hadn’t been,

Still, the idea that growls in the back of her mind is nothing more than an idea—an instinctual knowing without any sort of words. She has no desire to snarl and demand answers. Little desire to beg or fight over something that was no longer hers. So she doesn’t. She merely stands there, cool and unaffected despite the gnawing feeling of unease, the increasing desire to leave once more for the common lands. Where she might fight a stranger to spar with, someone who would offer her a throat to drain dry.

“Perhaps,” she offers, her voice still so carefully dry, a near drawl in the husky rasp. She angles her head a little. “Did you have diplomats accompany you?” Sochi has not yet met Oceane and has no way of knowing her name. She doesn’t pick up her distinct scent but she cannot fight the thought that while Castile does smell of many places, there is one scent that is stronger than the others—and is not a place.

She doesn’t press further though, instead sliding her silver gaze to the horizon. For a moment, she just lets it rest there, feeling the familiar wind pick up and run through her tangled mane, brush down the scarred length of her jawline. When she glances back, her face remains as unaffected as calm waters.

she said a war ain't a war before both sides bleed