Felacatian
Interacting with:
Kasir Dorran
The Alazmec woman swung in Soah's grip like a discarded carcass, the ropes biting into her wrists. The Felacatian dragged her within her maul without care, muscles rolling beneath her pelt, every step silent and deliberate in her cold simmering fury. Her tail lashed in warning as if the whole corridor should know better than to get in her way.
The Felacatian had hunted to burn the rage out of her blood. Instead, the stench of them clung stronger when she returned. It fouled the air, scratching at the back of her throat until her lips peeled over sharp teeth in a low, warning snarl.
This was her territory. Hers. Every muscle itched to leave her mark, to rub her scent against the walls, the corners, the very floor beneath her paws and drown their scent beneath her own. She nearly turned away again, ready to disappear into shadow, until another smell caught her.
Blood tarts. Cooling on the counter. Her work. Her Tribute. Her nostrils flared and the inky shadows reacted to the shift of emotions that bled from the teenager as the savory tang of pastry fat and sugared spice kept the rest of the scents at bay. That aroma curled like a tether around her neck, dragging her back from the brink.
A low chuff escaped her chest as her shape shifted once more. Bone cracked, sinew folded, fur retreated. In the span of several painful breaths, the predator collapsed into the slender frame of a teenager, dusky skin flushed with the lingering ache of change. She tugged her tunic over her head, fabric clinging to her dusky skin, then padded barefoot across the deck.
Without a word she tied on her apron, knotting it tight as if binding herself. The Alazmec she had dragged in lay bound and cast aside but Soah's focus had already shifted to bowls, fruit, and flame. She carved, she stirred, she tested the glaze with a fingertip and licked it clean, tasting the tang of the compote that coated her mouth like too much like blood.
The silence pressed heavy around her. Every stir of the spoon was a pacing step. Every clatter of a pan was the echo of claws against durasteel. Anger and resentment raked over her skin as though her fur might bristle through again at any second.
But she forced the predator to heel. She had work to finish.
Soah baked. She glazed. She moved with the precision of a huntress setting a snare, blocking out every stinking trace of betrayal with the only weapon she had left, her focus.
The galley was hers. And she would not yield it.