when i run through the deep dark forest long after this has begun,
The filly has shed away and a golden woman stands in her place - poised and full, with flickering of electric blue across her skin when the Loessian sun hits her just so. She still clings to what some may call the wildness of youth - her tangled mane and tail, the clay and dirt that is smeared against each of her slender legs, the fierce proudness in her almond-colored eyes - but to those who knew her well, they would know it is something more than the tight grip of youth that still clutches to her.
It is not youthfulness that racks her appearance - it is the wolf.
Even now, equine in shape and mind, Dayé’s thoughts are ever predator-like. Though in her half-brother’s territory she is more relaxed, she still finds herself keeping to the borders of what she deems her pack’s land - searching for daring intruders that she would not hesitate to throw out and keeping the small yet close knit herd of Loess protected. Perhaps if the scent of a hare or another wild animal caught her attention among the moss-colored stones and craggy outcroppings that shroud the hilly landscape, she would shift and satiate the hunger that always burns deep in her belly.
The smell of blood catches the mare’s attention.
It’s coppery and metallic on the wind, sliding over her tongue with bitterness that causes the mare to champ her lips together mildly, turning her head in the direction of the oncoming breeze. It nearly makes her shift; the tangy smell, old blood mixed with new, a weak and fragile beast ripe for the taking. Even if the animal was large in size, Dayé considers taking it on even then - the smell of it wreaked of death.
It’d be an easy meal.
As her eyes sharpen, her ears flicking into the tangled paleness of her ivory mane, the wind brings another detail to Dayé’s now agile trotting body as she scouts out her target.
It alarms her as the scent suddenly rings familiar (almost familial instead, she nearly muses to herself).
Sochi?
Her once light-footed trot now breaks into a cautious run, nostrils widening to intercept each morsel on the wind that brings the scent of her tigress closer with each stride, fear and worry suddenly etched across the normally stoic and fierce woman’s face.
Dayé immediately is at her side, the flash of blue unmistakable as it crosses over the gold of her skin to press herself against Sochi’s obsidian flank - to do what, she had no idea. To offer support? Perhaps. Her mouth deepens into a frown, her brow furrowing with concern and confusion while her eyes flash with gentle anger and accusation. Who has done this?
Dayé.
She speaks her name and there is a flutter in the woman’s chest.
“Yes, Sochi, I’m here,” the wolf-woman replies, her voice deep and low, only to be heard between them.
Is this real?
She wishes it wasn’t. Instead, she doesn’t reply, swallowing hard the feeling of dread that rises from the pit of her stomach. Dayé noses the soft, ebony skin where Sochi’s neck meets her jawline, huffing tenderly. “You must rest,” she says suddenly, lifting her head in the direction where she knew a half-circle formation of rocks hid sweet spring grass as soft as downy - Dayé’s den.
Dayé
where the sun would set, trees are dead, and the rivers were none.
@[Sochi]
word vomit, here you go <3