Sorin’s Requiem

Slight of hand,

slight of tongue.

Either way,

her opinion is posed.

Never weeping,

always screaming.

Edging, like a Veteran disposed,

towards firearms where comfort grows.

She does not shift,

she hardly turns.

She relies on her sights,

her muzzle turned.

Twisting tightly, sights locked.

A deep breath taken.

A shot sounds off.

Sorin.

She is everything of a warrior.

Tidy.

Neat.

Clean.

Sorin.

Ferocious.

Blunt.

Serious.

She lives the soldier's way.

Her eyes straight,

her mouth poised,

lips almost pursed.

Her feet tight to the floor beneath her,

waiting for command.

She runs to battle when told.

She hardly questions,

rarely argues.

She is... a woman of order.

A woman of prejudice.

A woman of pride.

But in the matters of family,

her emotions doth hide.

Seething with anger,

she always pops.

Her worries, her fears, her anger sloughs.

Like a wolf,

boundless and empty

She jumps into the fray,

tearing, throwing, snapping up

each one like sheep.

Each leech tossed away.

Her nephew's son was lost somewhere.

Her heart was heavy,

her sorrow high.

She was not the warrior she was typically tonight.

A silver bullet,

liquid metal oozing through.

Hot metal beamed,

then shot right through.

Pierced her eye,

twisting the flesh away.

Gleaming metal oozed down that day.

Writhing back,

the fur retreats.

Her screams,

they dance.

They echo.

Her claws all sheathed.

No peace.

No silence.

No soldier's honor.

Just a woman, lost to her emotions.

Lost to her sorrow.

A scar of no honor,

a scar of sorrow.