Duck Lake and we'd break under the weight of any pain that ever came in this life

no, tashkent didn't look like the type of woman to accept no as an answer to indra. not now, not ever -- it wasn't the cool flit of her seafoam eyes that suggested that (though indra thought their unreadable depth might have helped). it was the cocksure swagger of her gait, the rounded, careless tousle of her fur -- hell, even the mirth that danced across her sharp features seemed to say she was a cobra that delighted in posing as something far more harmless.

indra wondered what it was about her that suggested she needed a friend -- least of all, from a woman who looked like she could cut the balls off of a man simply by looking at him -- but, for all of her wondering, she didn't ask. she was not the type (read: self-centered) to be fascinated enough by what others saw in her to press further, and simply accepted this judgment with an idle roll of a shoulder.

if tashkent wanted to suffer indra's sour presence, so be it. tashkent might be dangerous, but god damn, indra was bitter -- and bitter was not always better, and often, it had a way of chipping at the self-resilience of others until they could stand you no longer.

"maybe not." indra answered, but she was already walking away -- she assumed the dark-furred woman would follow. "but something makes me think you are not wrong often." she glanced over a shoulder, as if to read from the ruddy she-wolf's complexion whether such an assumption was true.