holiday party; sabra

[sochi]

Sochi

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

Sochi can practically taste the other’s pulse on the air, although such senses are significantly dulled when in this form. Still, her body is tuned to them, to the war drums of a frantic heartbeat, to the fluttering edges of a jagged pulse. It is a beautiful thing, something that drags at her like gravity, a liquid pull in her belly. She can’t decide if she feels hunger or desire or something in between; if she is merely curious, trying to distract a roving mind, or if there’s something else that simmers below the surface.

To be completely honest, she doesn't overly care.

Sabra melds beneath the rhythm of the conversation and Sochi’s eyes sharpen, the silvery depths of them unreadable, inscrutable as she continues to study the other, her gaze unabashed. Her lips pull into a shadow of a smile when she compliments her name in return, gaze wandering lazily to the wings at her side before returning to Sabra’s opalescent features. They are ethereal, pure, and she can’t help but wonder if the heart that beats beneath the baby blue and the pastel pink is as pure as she appears.

What would she think to know of the blood on Sochi’s hands?

On the mare she had murdered on her quest to Pangea’s heart?

On the fact that she is patient zero? That she was the first to Rhonen's throat?

She doesn’t ask, doesn’t care to know, and instead lets her mind wander with the question. Her lips quirk with amusement as she looks to the horizon, as if she could see her daughter there, although she knows that Reia is either long gone or hunting for entertainment or prey (or both). “My daughter,” she answers with a shrug. “I believe she wanted to see her father who is somewhere around here.” A roll of her shoulder that belies that shimmer of heat in her belly when she thinks of Castile, of his sharp features and the way that they are stamped on her daughter’s face—predator and unapologetic and fierce.

But her mind does not wander for long.

It is quickly caught by the mare before her again, a thread snagged on a thorn, and she brings her gaze back. “And where exactly do you think I would be comfortable?” there is a hint of something like mischief in the smoke of her voice, rare humor in the angle of her head as she waits for the answer.

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

@[Sabra]