03-05-2020, 11:41 PM
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Roboto Condensed' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'> <style type="text/css"> .sochi2_container { position: relative; z-index: 1; background: #000; width: 600px; padding: 0 0 0 0; border: solid 1px #1b1a1a; box-shadow: 0px 0px 10px 1px #000; } .sochi2_container p { margin: 0; } .sochi2_image { position: relative; z-index: 4; width: 600px; } .sochi2_text { position: relative; z-index: 6; width: 580px; margin-top: -250px; background: #1b1a1a; border: solid 1px #65605f; border-bottom: none; } .sochi2_message { position: relative; font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: justify; color: #65605f; padding: 30px; } .sochi2_name { position: absolute; z-index: 10; color: #65605f; font: 15px 'Roboto Condensed', sans-serif; letter-spacing: 10px; top: 500px; left: 90px; } .sochi2_quote { font: 10px 'Roboto Condensed', sans-serif; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 3px; color: #918889; padding-bottom: 30px; } </style> <center> <div class="sochi2_container"> <div class="sochi2_name">SOCHI</b></div> <img class="sochi2_image" src="https://i.postimg.cc/gjjqMQ1y/sochi3.png"> <div class="sochi2_text"> <p class="sochi2_message"> The first time that she had answered a call such as this, it had been to the dark god. She wore the ragged tattoo across her chest as a symbol of that forced obedience. It doesn’t hurt—it’s just a reminder, after all—but sometimes she wakes in the middle of the night and swears she can feel that visceral sensation of her own claws ripping into her chest, tearing it apart, so that her heart could come rolling out of it.
She knows well that such things require this kind of sacrifice from her.
They have required tearing herself apart and then forcing her to construct herself anew with the scraps. This kind of self-destructive cycle has become part of her, has followed her outside of these quests, and she no longer fights it. Doesn’t fight the way she rips out the good in her life by the roots and starts over. Forces herself to find peace in the reconstruction, in the giving up of things she believed to matter.
She is in the throes of such a cycle when she answers the call. Her shoulders are square and her silver eyes clear when she walks into the group, black mane roping over her neck. For a second, her gaze slips to the dragon amongst them and she feels a painful twist that causes her to scowl. With a flexing of the muscle in her jaw, she turns her gaze back to the painted mare and keeps them trained.
She doesn’t reply right away and instead stands quietly, her mouth pressed together and her mercurial gaze unwavering. Of what does she dream? She dreams of the hunt—of the rush of adrenaline when she locks onto prey and springs, of that feeling before impact, of the satisfaction when teeth sink into flesh. She dreams of freedom—of being free to do as she wished without the bindings of politics or rules or the trappings of relationships. She dreams of a world where she was, truly, the final say. A world where she was not subject to the whims of others—whether it be her mother, Carnage, Castile, or other.
“I don’t dream much,” she confesses, her husky voice tripping on the edge of raspy, the hint of a smile teasing at the corner of a serious mouth, “but when I do, I dream of the kind of power that allows me to be the author of the natural law.” She is silent for a moment longer, just a breath, before she rolls a shoulder. “There is not much that I would not give for such freedom,” a soft noise in the back of her throat as she thinks of everything that she has sacrificed in the past, the things ripped from her.
“But if you must have specifics, I would sever my very self in half to achieve it.”
For a second, her body ripples orange and ivory and black. She knows Straia does not need her magic to know that Sochi is a woman split into two—and a woman who more often preferred the lifestyle afforded to her when she stalked as a tigress than living as prey. It was engrained Sochi’s very DNA. Being able to shift into her second form was as essential to her as breathing—and yet. And yet.
She finds resolve as her jaw sets and her gaze remains locked on the mare.
For this kind of power, this kind of freedom, she would give it up. She would. </p> <p class="sochi2_quote">she said a war ain't a war before both sides bleed</p> </div> </div> </center>
Sochi is a free agent and is not affiliated to any land.
She knows well that such things require this kind of sacrifice from her.
They have required tearing herself apart and then forcing her to construct herself anew with the scraps. This kind of self-destructive cycle has become part of her, has followed her outside of these quests, and she no longer fights it. Doesn’t fight the way she rips out the good in her life by the roots and starts over. Forces herself to find peace in the reconstruction, in the giving up of things she believed to matter.
She is in the throes of such a cycle when she answers the call. Her shoulders are square and her silver eyes clear when she walks into the group, black mane roping over her neck. For a second, her gaze slips to the dragon amongst them and she feels a painful twist that causes her to scowl. With a flexing of the muscle in her jaw, she turns her gaze back to the painted mare and keeps them trained.
She doesn’t reply right away and instead stands quietly, her mouth pressed together and her mercurial gaze unwavering. Of what does she dream? She dreams of the hunt—of the rush of adrenaline when she locks onto prey and springs, of that feeling before impact, of the satisfaction when teeth sink into flesh. She dreams of freedom—of being free to do as she wished without the bindings of politics or rules or the trappings of relationships. She dreams of a world where she was, truly, the final say. A world where she was not subject to the whims of others—whether it be her mother, Carnage, Castile, or other.
“I don’t dream much,” she confesses, her husky voice tripping on the edge of raspy, the hint of a smile teasing at the corner of a serious mouth, “but when I do, I dream of the kind of power that allows me to be the author of the natural law.” She is silent for a moment longer, just a breath, before she rolls a shoulder. “There is not much that I would not give for such freedom,” a soft noise in the back of her throat as she thinks of everything that she has sacrificed in the past, the things ripped from her.
“But if you must have specifics, I would sever my very self in half to achieve it.”
For a second, her body ripples orange and ivory and black. She knows Straia does not need her magic to know that Sochi is a woman split into two—and a woman who more often preferred the lifestyle afforded to her when she stalked as a tigress than living as prey. It was engrained Sochi’s very DNA. Being able to shift into her second form was as essential to her as breathing—and yet. And yet.
She finds resolve as her jaw sets and her gaze remains locked on the mare.
For this kind of power, this kind of freedom, she would give it up. She would. </p> <p class="sochi2_quote">she said a war ain't a war before both sides bleed</p> </div> </div> </center>
Sochi is a free agent and is not affiliated to any land.
![[Image: sochi.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/rs3xFJR0/sochi.png)
I was less than graceful, I was not kind
be out watching other lovers lose their spine