Striken [Open]

[Solene]

Curling her lip into a disgusted sneer, Solene took a step back from the dead lion at her feet. It wasn’t uncommon to come across these felines in the wilderness and Solene had taken life from enough of them to serve purposes, but purpose was clearly lacking here. Maggots swarmed in the slashes across the feline’s stomach and neck, rot and putrid fluids seeping from any opening that could be found, and a smell that could make a zombie retch surrounded the carcass. Fear was frozen on the sunken face of the animal, a long-lived fear, as if it had been tormented until the moment its death took it by surprise. Whomever or whatever took the creature had been cruel in its hunt and then wasteful. A wash of contempt flooded through her before a solemn sense of mourning settled into the pit of her stomach.

She laced her fingers together and tilted her head just enough to brush against the fur of the tiny calico that demanded a seat on her shoulder. She’d found the feline in the graveyard wrestling a femur as if it were alive and struggling against her tiny strength. The cat had found its way into her coat pocket before the night was over and since that point refused to be away from her. Solene was her precious commodity and the cat, yet unnamed, was reluctantly accepted into Solene’s personal bubble.
“Just so you know, cat… if you kill something, you better eat it or deliver parts to me. Killing for fun will find you without a home.”
The fussy mew and gentle bump to her cheek was enough confirmation for Solene that she was understood. In truth, she wasn’t sure that the cat was, in fact, a cat. She wasn’t convinced that she simply tolerated its presence either… she knew there was an attachment, but the sense of belonging is what was truly baffling.

With a groan, she protectively moved the tiny fluff ball to the inner pocket of her coat before grabbing the lion’s scruff and dragging what was intact further into the wilderness. Soldiers and police seemed to be lingering around the borders in mass and she couldn’t think of any lie that would explain away her gathering parts from this creature. Of course, that was always the case. She was either elbow deep in blood and organs or dirt if she wasn’t working. Necromancy didn’t allow much room for glamour, she’d found, but the benefits were both worthwhile and all encompassing. Everything had suffered for the demands of her path- all of her relationships, her image, her routines, sanity, and clothing. It didn’t seem to be something she had any control over, its pull was seductive and demanding. It infuriated her, but the control it had was enthralling. She felt sick, at times wondering if this was a punishment for becoming an archaeologist and disturbing so many dead. Other times she was certain that it was a natural successive pathway… an ‘as above, so below’ sort of balance. The thoughts haunted her as she wandered deeper into the wilderness, occasionally sushing the tiny meows from her little familiar.