stranger in this land; colby pony

[sochi]

Sochi

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

He is not her usual type of company, or even her usual type of prey, but he is different enough that he catches her feline attention. It is the barest of motions that signal she even saw him, a twitch of his nose, the narrowing of her eyes, the bunching of muscles beneath a thick winter coat. It is enough to send something racing up her nerves—a competing sensation of hunger and curiosity and the unknown that drops out beneath her, presenting her once more with a reality that she cannot easily understand.

She considers gathering herself and launching at him, reacting on instinct and attacking, just so she can see what it feels like to have the ivory of him beneath her paws, the crunch and snap of bones between her teeth. But even she, barely restrained and mostly feral, is able to pull herself back.

In the end, the curiosity wins out over the hunger.

It is not always the case.

She stops herself barely in time to keep herself from slamming into his insubstantial side, coming to a stop much less graceful than usual. It spits dirt onto her face and she jerks her head, rising up into a half lunge to share herself entirely, her body graceful and lithe. When she comes back down on all four paws, there is a nervous energy that races through her although it is less nerves than straight excitement.

The thrill of the hunt still keen in her eyes, jittering in her bloodstream.

She shifts, hoping her form of prey will blunt the edges of it, and sheds the form as easily as she wore it. Within seconds, she is once again equine, the shine of her iridescent nearly as bright as her silver eyes.

Even in this form, she can smell the faint, ripe edge of something rotten on him and it dulls the hunger in her stomach. She is glad that she did not take him between her teeth before she stopped to assess him.

“Have you escaped death or has it escaped you?”

It is the only question that she can think to ask.

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

@[Nightlock]