holiday party; sabra

[sochi]

Sochi

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

She is not someone who is usually enamored with the bright lights and festivities such as those that now adorn the island. Her heart does not stammer in her chest at the view, and her eyes do not grow wide with wonder. That is not to say she does not appreciate it or even see how others may have similar reactions; she herself is simply not the kind to go weak in the knees at a gesture, and she walks through it, barely registering the others who gather around, her shoulder brushing against them but eyes never seeing.

She wears her equine form, hair nearly pitch black in the dead of winter, the iridescent blue of her face shimmering in the low light, and the crimson scars bright as they run jagged across her chest. There is no small part of her that desperately hungers for the tigress body. She can feel it like a pinched nerve as she continues to walk through the throngs of horses, small muscle spasms on her back and a mild headache beginning to brew behind her eyes. All she wanted was the feel of heavy paw and silence.

If she was being honest, she wanted more than that—

the salty rush of blood in her mouth, the thrill of the hunt, the crunch of bones between teeth

—but that is a hunger that she can temper, that she can bring to heel.

But that vicious, biting desire to be predator and not prey is not a feeling so easily blunted.

It brings an irritation simmering beneath the surface that sharpens her silver eyes, her mouth pulled taut and her back stiff as she finally breaks through the thickest part of the crowd to find a rush of silence on the other side. It is not so bright here, the tiny, flickering orbs of light not as populated, and she imagines that the snow is even thinner beneath her hooves, but such things pale in comparison to the pure joy that she feels when she is able to close her eyes, tip her head back, and breathe the cold air deep in her lungs.

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

@[Sabra]

[Sabra]

All parties, big or small, rowdy or sedate, have one thing in common. No matter the party, there will always be that one corner the introverts gravitate toward. A collection of faces that stand on the outside, looking in at those who find socializing easy, making conversation a second nature. I had been one of them, once. I could talk to anyone, be whatever they wanted in the moment. Things were different now. 

I found myself standing on the fringes, wanting to participate but not sure why. What did these gathered creatures have to offer me, outside of a temporary distraction from the darkness that clouded my mind most days. It was all very well that the place sparked like a glitter dipped soap bubble, and ironic that it felt the closest I'd come to blending in with a landscape in a long while. Curse the gods who'd found it funny to paint me such an absurd array of colors. What had once been a gift now dogged me like a technicolor nightmare, drawing attention where it wasn't wanted. 

Besides. The pretty paintwork had long since been scratched and worn. Looking around at all the surrounding loveliness, it was hard to not feel run down, to be keenly aware of each and every scar crisscrossing my face and body. Out of no where, the urge to rip the skin from the muscles underneath filters into my brain. To start over fresh, and be anyone but myself. It's a frightening, exhilarating image and I shake myself from it with a pounding heart. 

This won't do. It won't do at all. I can feel the anxiety clawing at my chest like a many toothed predator, eating me alive. Not an exaggeration, I know exactly what that feels like. Glancing frantically about, I look for something, anything, to distract me. It's then that I notice another mare break into the quiet place, filling herself with cool air and looking nervous in an angry kind of way. I can relate. Jaw set defiantly I step closer, wearing what was probably not the ideal expression for making friends. 

"Hello. My name is Sabra, what's yours?" Simple, concise, no bullshit. Her perfume wends it's way to me, at once feminine and predatorily musky. Dark and sleek, with an eye catching splash of color on her face and a livid scar I spare a glance for. She's beautiful, in a dangerous way, and I feel something like excitement vying for dominance with my anxiety. Speaking to anyone new felt like a dare anymore, and I never was one to turn down a dare. I have ice and fire embedded in my very soul, it's about time I could feel something that wouldn't attempt to destroy me. 

@[Sochi]

[sochi]

Sochi

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

She doesn’t expect anyone to approach her.

Sochi has never been to draw crowds, has never been one to seek them out either. There has always been something about her that’s a little too rough around the edges, a little too blunt—something about her that smells of predators and tastes of otherness. Such things have never bothered her. She has known that all too often, horses can smell the tiger on her. She knows she makes them nervous.

If only they knew just how nervous they should really be.

Still, the last one she expects to break through the crowd to find her is the one painted in rainbows and the sheer beauty of an oil spill. There’s something delicate about her beauty—a softness that Sochi has never obtained and never vied for—but it is directly contradicted by the grit in the other mare's voice, the strength in her gaze. The steel and velvet of her is intriguing, confusing, and Sochi finds herself looking closer.

“Sochi,” she answers the mare, her voice throaty and deep, feminine despite the husky smoke of it. Her silver eyes are intense, smoldering beneath the swath of ink of her forelock. She mulls over the other mare’s name, her face unreadable as her thoughts move like undercurrents across her dark features.

“Sabra,” she repeats the name slowly, letting it linger on her tongue. “I like it.”

There is another moment of silence, Sochi comfortable with the long stretches of quiet, her gaze not wavering and unapologetic. She doesn’t apologize anymore. Doesn’t pretend to be something that she is not. Doesn’t hide her face or wash the blood from her hands. Instead, she just holds onto the connection with the other mare, testing it for the moment before her lips quirk into a secret smile.

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

@[Sabra]

[Sabra]

That predator's gaze is apparent, and I can see that she expects me to sidestep, to shy from it. I should be. Still, instinct dies in the face of familiarity, and I had lived among the blood hungry long enough to be indifferent. Curious, maybe. But my only outward reaction was the tilt of my head under her scrutiny. 

Where I was built with speed and agility in mind, she moved like a creature used to stealth. Low slung and muscular, and... my mouth suddenly felt desert dry, and fear had nothing to do with it. Hearing my name on her lips is a lovely thing. I can almost taste the words, like summer peaches heavy on my tongue, it's sweet and warm. How long had it been since someone had said my name with such a tone? Anger,  despair, violent wrath. These were the bitter, burning flavors that had tasted my name more recently. Not sweetness, not intrigue. 

An answering smile lifts the corners of my mouth hesitantly. As the silence stretches between us, I can feel the chaotic pounding of my heart pulsing into something less aggressive. I had lived alone long enough to be content with the quiet, just watching as cold air condenses between us in clouds of mist.

"Sochi," I breathe, watching the name twist into the air over us. Even our voices are counterpoints, mine silvery music to her honeyed whiskey. "I like that, too." Maybe coming to this party wouldn't the waste of time I'd thought it would be. My wings rustled lightly in the breeze, a pastel feather or two spinning to the ground. "What are you doing here, Sochi? Surely you'd be more comfortable someplace darker, with fewer... them, involved." I asked after a moment, gesturing toward the shining throng. It was possible I had read her wrong. Perhaps this was exactly her kind of place. I doubted it, though. 

Horses who stood on the outside of the crowd often showed it. And... here we were. 

@[Sochi]

[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]

[Sabra]

Her gaze lingers on me, flowing across my skin, examining every curve and flaw. I let her. Why not, when there is nothing I could do to stop her but leave? Her expression is mercurial as it roves, bleeding from one emotion to the next, finally settling on something I can't quite read. My mouth opens to let out something saucy, only to snap shut again when she answers my question from before. A daughter. A daughter with a father who cared about her, it seemed. 

The pink rimmed ears tipped backward into my mane. I found myself admitting aloud what I had barely been able to think to myself. "I'm here to get away from my daughter." A toneless laugh accompanied the statement. "Three fine strong boys, and when I finally get my girl? She's a weakling, sickly from the day she was born, and the only good thing her father did for me was die. Just not quite quick enough to prevent his parting gift." The words come brittle and harsh on my normally pretty voice. 

I have never been a particularly good mother, but this child had tested my maternal instinct beyond measure. I stood by her, and had lost everything else in return. Shrugging, I lifted my head in challenge, daring her to criticize me. "Maybe she'll be dead when I get back. Probably not, but a girl can hope." 

I hated myself, just a little, for letting those words into the air. Not enough to regret them. What I wouldn't have given for things to be any kind of different. I'd carried a picture in my head of a little girl, fierce and strong winged, a dragoness to keep up with her fiery brothers. I felt cheated of the girl she could have been. Of the life I felt I should have had. Sochi's life, perhaps. How could a mare like her have anything short of a fearsome daughter? Any man of hers would not think of leaving her. 

My eyes shut tight as I forced the roiling emotions back down my throat. This was exactly why I was here, to escape the anger that had been my day and night companion. Instead I found it still there, just under the surface. How had I thought I'd be fit company for anyone? 

Eyes still shuttered, I let her query penetrate the fog of my mind. "Some deep forest, I imagine. Someplace still and dim, where you can wear the skin you're best suited to." The clear blue of my eyes shone back into the glittering night air, seeking out the soft grey of hers. I did not need to guess at her ability. I had lived long enough among shifters to see how they stretched and yearned for their other forms, how at times they seemed barely contained by their own skins. Sochi had the same air I had seen in my son, in Castile. 

"Someplace to be yourself." I concluded, suddenly tired. This had been a bad idea. 

@[Sochi]

[sochi]

Sochi

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

Sochi doesn’t know if the other’s confession is expected to surprise her or rattle her or invoke anything within her, but they don’t. The tigress barely bats an eyelash, her sterling eyes maintaining that same curiosity, that same hunger she can’t quite define. She rolls a muscled shoulder, a casual dismissal of whatever cruel things Sabra was attempting to point at herself, at whatever challenge was in her eyes.

“She will either grow strong or she will die,” her throaty voice has no inflection, no sorrow or pity or glee. It’s merely a fact of life, and she doesn’t attempt to soften it—to coat it in sugar as if the acid of it would not eat it away, would not rip at the lips of those who dared to speak it. “That is the way of nature. There is no point in pretending it is otherwise.” Sochi is glad Reia had not been born weak (she was as fierce as her parents, as sharp-toothed and head-strong and wild as the com). She knows in her heart that she would have responded in much the same way as Sabra had her daughter been born frail and ill.

Sochi simply does not believe in pretending just to make someone feel better.

The anger though—that surprises her, and she tilts her head in curiosity, touches her tongue to her lip as she considers Sabra. “And where do you go to be yourself?” she asks suddenly, her voice of smoke and ash billowing between them. “Have you felt like yourself at all recently?” Sochi takes a step forward, not tasting the scent of a shifter in Sabra but knowing that something just as dark and hungry stirred beneath the surface. Something that felt trapped. Suppressed. Something that just needed a release.

Sochi’s teeth shift, the wicked curve of ivory beginning to show, her eyes brightening.

Her blood boils and simmers, predator mind beginning to sharpen. There’s more to say—more prompting, more asking, more things she could press on Sabra, but Sochi has never been overly interested in such things. Instead, she shifts slightly, her scarred, compact body widening the angle between them. As if gesturing the mare forward, although whether the motion was designed to engage in a fight or was an invitation to something else—something darker, something more primal—was entirely unknown.

Perhaps even unknown to Sochi herself.

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

@[Sabra]

[Sabra]

Sochi's words are no revelation to me. That is the common reality, is it not? Life and death are the only options, they forget that sometimes there is choice partway between the two. Weak blood, with a body that refused to perish. That would be my legacy to the girl. Even if she should want to die, her desires would go unanswered. 

There is no point in arguing, however, I haven't the wherewithal to debate the matter. Even if I did I could see that the dark mare had only a fleeting interest in the topic. Haughty and certain of her correctness, I get the impression that conversations of mortality would do nothing but bore her. Any other day, that in itself would have been enough motive for me to press on, to see just how much irritation she could take before the cool exterior cracked. 

Tonight, though, everything lurked too near the surface for my typical games to have any pleasure. 

Meeting her gaze steadily, I consider her reflections of my own questions, jaw tightening when I realize that I have no ready answer to give. Once, the river had been my haven. I had loved the sound of it, the way it cleaned away every smudge and shadow from my mind if I stood there long enough. Once. Now darker memories crowded out the good, and I was adrift again. 

She had struck to the heart of the matter in one indifferent query. So many days it felt like I didn't exist at all. That I really had died when Klaudius had struck me through the heart, and everything I'd experienced since was my brain slowly catching up. Beyond that, I knew I'd lost something that day, some core piece that made me who I was. My passion had been twisted into vengeful bitterness, with nowhere to turn but inward. Certain she could see the tumult in my face, I spoke aloud anyway. 

"It has been far too long, since I recognized myself." It is almost a relief, to speak like this with someone who doesn't care. All too often, its the ones that think they care who lie the worst. In the half light, I watch her teeth thicken and stretch into lethal points. Hunger gleams in her eyes as she moves, stirring nothing beyond mild curiosity in my breast. 

Whatever she is, I have faced worse without blinking. Whatever she could do to me, I believe I'd survive. When I have nothing else, I have that. A taunting smile curls my mouth. Tipping my neck to the side, I open it to her examination, feeling the blood flow through my veins. "Go on, then. Paint the snow with my blood. Drink me down, and tell me what I taste like," I invite, feeling strange excitement build within. It's chaotic and dangerous, this open mockery of Death. Dreamlike. 

"Add a new scar or two, and I'll always remember you." It's a dark promise, one i know would be easy to keep. Each silvery break in my coat is a memory, a lesson. I'd like to remember this. I'd like to remember this woman with her glinting eyes and cool words.

@[Sochi]

[sochi]

Sochi

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

They meld and clash, and Sochi feels a mild irritation at it. One moment, they are liquid silver, coming together in an understanding, and the next they are oil and water, unable to truly see eye to eye. Sochi’s reaction is instinctual, never truly adept at the finer points of interactions, and she growls low in her throat, feels a familiar anger and the need to just react, to lash out and not think about it so much.

The moment has become sticky, and she wants to either push through it or extract it.

Anything but hang in the middle, the tension thick and confusing.

Sabra takes the invitation, but not in the way that Sochi expects and confusion flits across her predator’s face for a moment, her body pausing, muscles locking beneath her winter coat. Sabra doesn’t meet her in the middle—doesn’t engage in the fight, doesn’t defend, doesn’t do anything. She simply lifts her head and exposes her throat, laying it out like a banquet and expecting Sochi to jump in and feast.

Something twists in Sochi’s gut and her lips peel back from her teeth, silver eyes hardening. “Are you so far gone that you would simply have me rip out your throat while you stand there?” Her voice is harsher now, the ash in it clear. She doesn’t make another move, her head hung low. “I have no interest in tearing you apart.” Sochi wasn’t some weak predator who needed to wait for the lame deer at the end of the pack. She wasn’t a scavenger. She didn’t feed on the sick and feeble. The very thought makes her feel ill.

Frustrating and confusion cloud her features, lip still pulled back in a snarl. “Wake up, Sabra,” the name still twists in her mouth into something strangely gentle. “Meet me halfway or walk away.”

Then, she exhales, agitation clear, suppressed need, a dark and simmering desire beneath the surface.

Without knowing, she closes her eyes and drops the match in spilled gasoline.

“Or, if nothing else, tell me if you’ve seen Castile so I can be on my way.”

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

@[Sabra]

[Sabra]

My eyes roll back at her reaction, but a part of me enjoys that I've finally drawn forth some kind of emotion from her. Even if it is disdain. With a laconic expression, I turn back to face her. "I might be, yes. But you also need to pay better attention. I never asked you to kill me. I doubt you could, even if you wanted to. I said to draw my blood. But seeing as you won't..." I shrugged, looking away as my interest ebbed. 

Wake up, she told me, almost beseechingly. Was I not awake? These were conscious decisions I was making. This was the world I lived in, the world that refused to let me go. To watch as everyone I loved left me. My sons were as much wanderers as their blood could have predicted, and I knew my own gypsy heart had as much blame in that as anything. Life was difficult enough, and yet I had the knack for making it harder by pushing away those who might have helped me through it. 

Wake up. I'd tried, but the nightmares followed me into the daylight. The residual feeling of being broken and remade, over and over until I felt like the pieces couldn't possibly fit back together ever again. Eyes bright with emotion, I found myself a little surprised to find my own teeth bared in a snarl to match her own. It didn't seem to matter that I had no sharpened claws or jagged teeth to aid me, in that moment I felt ready to tear her limb from limb. 

One moment, a destroyer. The next moment, the destroyed. 

I blinked, uncomprehending. Castile. She had to mean someone else. Please, let her mean someone, anyone, else. Wake up, Sabra. A long, slow breath emptied my lungs, trying to fight past the sudden drop in my stomach. A flat smile pasted itself across my features, as my head shook slowly. 

"No. No, I haven't seen him. Not since the last time he walked out on me. Although I suppose that makes more sense now." Too clearly, I saw it. Sochi, beautiful, lethal Sochi. Of course she would suite him. She was everything I wasn't, everything he needed. But I could be iron and stone when I needed. A mask empty of emotion slid into place, too late but there nonetheless. "If you find him, tell him... tell him hello from me, would you? Or don't. It was nice to meet you, Sochi." I shrugged, and turned away with my head held as high as a queen's. My wings told a different story, hanging loosely by my sides, primaries trailing lightly in the snow. 

Three times he'd left me. And now... I wouldn't ask for more. Clearly, a choice had been made, and I was not the kind to grovel for a recount. 

@[Sochi]