bottom of the deep blue sea; sochi/castile/any

[sochi]

Sochi

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

Sochi does not have the same beauty as the kelpie mare.

She is not delicate or refined; she does not have the silvery bell loveliness of Isobell. Not that she is without beauty entirely, but hers is more raw, less polished. She is the beauty of the hunt, of a primal hunger. She is a predator to her core and she wears the form easily, patrolling the borders of Castile’s kingdom in her tigress form. She has never been one to want for titles or power—she is more interested in the power of jaws crushing throats than the ones afforded by a crown—but Castile is now part of her pack and if Loess was what he wanted then she would gladly lend tooth and claw to see it protected.

It is during these patrols that she sees the two-toned mare on the beach—perhaps the smallest part of the Loess border but guarded nonetheless. Sochi pauses and angles her feline head toward the mare, her eyes narrowing in thought as she places a paw back down, pressing it into the soft earth below. She has no way of knowing that this is Castile’s sister but he has also not given her reason to believe that she is to treat everyone on the border as a threat. So she doesn’t simply attack but instead pads over.

When she is several feet away, she shifts, shedding the thick onyx and cream fur and elongating her limbs. When she stands still again she is a mare once more, her mercurial silver gaze steady and neutral, the sun washing over the crimson tattoos that scar her chest. “Hello,” she says simply, wondering is she is supposed to say more. Was she supposed to introduce herself? Ask if she could help?

Neither option feels right and so she says nothing, simply standing there and waiting for a response.

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