after the storm

The windchill of the morning gales had run through Nike's coat, bristling the tuffs of fur against her cheeks. It was colder today yet her fur didn't support such a gust. 

"Blasted cold," she would utter, teeth chittering together before she clamped her mouth shut. She'd pace around the ruins, the breaking columns of cement coated with thick moss that made her sniff around, getting a feel for the area.

She could smell the scent of a pack. Or at least a group of sorts. She wondered with intrigue, ears flickering for a potential response.

 

---

@Madmortigan

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The sound of another's voice caught in her ear. The woman turned, elegant in her step, mane of fur falling gracefully over her cheeks. Her hooded indigo eyes peered at the man, tall and unforgiving stature, that made her coo. 

"Indeed it is," she'd say wearily, but looked at him like he was a bite to eat. Her tail would sway side to side as she took a few steps closer to the male, her lean physique elongating in a progressive manner. 

"I had a feeling they were." His calm demeanor caught her gaze. Held it for a little longer. She liked it. "I'm looking for a home. A good one, at that." She would circle him once, sizing him up, seeing if he was worthy. Nike carried herself with deep admiration. High regard. "Would you be able to provide something...like that?" Her voice was melodic, entrancing, as she gave him a half-wit smile.

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Nike had no choice but to be forthright with him. It's who she was. A woman would get no further in this world if she hadn't worn what she wanted upon her very chest. He was glad she had asked of her talents— she would have been weary if he had just...let her walk right in. 

"Knowledge. Patterns. Anything of the sort— a man taught me very young how to analyze patterns and remember them." Nike would stand straight, her smile mimicking his own. "I remember it all."

Her memory was clean cut. Sharp. It was simply photographic. Every moment of Nike's life was visualized and manifested into real desires. However, she could not dream. She was cursed, but also blessed with dreamless nights, only being left with the surplus of information she had gathered the night before.

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Nike listened to the man speak. He spoke with such a charm, such a captivation that she could not help but listen. His words struck her, struck her hard, that she could indeed expedite her talents here. She had many, after all, and not just her photographic memory.

His terms were simple. Nike hated laziness. She hated the bums who fed off the bottom of the deep end, those who refused knowledge above all else. There was an undeniable gait that stood between them, and the unknown. She wanted to take that step. Further her path.

"With pleasure," she'd confirm, her voice thick with promise and sultry.

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