lost to these linens / any

[sochi]

For a moment she is caught up in the thrill of the game – the thrill of hunt-chase-pounce – and she scrambles after the other girl, but she quickly realizes when the filly screams and continues to scramble away, crying out that Sochi is trying to eat her, and so she drops back, ears dropping to the side of her head as she winces. Whoops. Lifting her head over the grasses, she watches the other girl trip and fall down and then she movess forward slowly, trying to be not-scary.

She’s too excited to shift back, so she is stuck as the tiger cub who has so terrified her potential playmate. She crosses the stream and creeps closer, keeping herself tucked beneath the sheltering grasses. Instead of raising her orange head, she raises her voice to be heard instead. “I’m not trying to eat you!” she calls, voice ardent and sounding somewhat hurt. She had yelled tag, hadn’t she? What kind of predator would warn their food they were coming? Certainly not Sochi. “I just wanted to play,” Now her tone is distinctly sullen, pouty; taking the hope that the other girl was at least listening even if not believing, Sochi pops back up over the tops of the grass and walks forward to where she has fallen, pink tongue flicking out nervously to wet her lips as silver eyes that look totally out of place on her orange face take in the sight of the girl splayed and bleeding in front of her.

“I have a horse form like you,” she says. “But I’m not very good at getting it back yet. My mommy says I need practice. I’m Sochi.” And then, as an afterthought: “I’m sorry I scared you.”