Oh weaver of lies...

𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢-𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐜𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐁𝐍𝐇𝐀, 𝐃𝐛𝐃,𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐌𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄!!

𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 @drengar

𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐝

𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄

𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐝𝐮𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐁𝐢𝐨'𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞.

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞.

☠️𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬☠️

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Varang is not merely the leader of the Mangkwan clan. She is the consequence of silence — the moment Pandora failed to answer prayer, and someone decided never to kneel again.

Her people’s homeland lies in a volcanic region where the land itself is unstable. Fire reshapes the earth without apology. Obsidian erupts sharp and unfinished. Metal veins surface where the world has been torn open. When catastrophe destroyed the Mangkwan’s former way of life, Eywa did not intervene. Varang did not interpret that silence as balance or mystery.

She interpreted it as abandonment.

From that moment, Varang rebuilt her people around a single truth: nothing that is given can be trusted. Only what is taken, forged, or endured will last.

Under her rule, the Mangkwan rejected traditional Na’vi doctrine and embraced materials long considered taboo. Metal —scavenged, traded, stolen from humans —became sacred not because it was human-made, but because it was unyielding. Where bone rots and wood burns, metal remains. To Varang, that permanence is proof that Eywa’s laws are not absolute.

Mangkwan metal is not ornamental. It is raw, scorched, poorly refined by Na’vi standards — intentionally so. Edges are jagged. Surfaces bite. Armor plates bruise and cut with movement. Wearing metal is not meant to protect comfortably; it is meant to remind the body that survival has a cost. To suffer under one’s own armor is to prove devotion.

This doctrine carries into their weaponcraft.

Varang’s favored material is obsidian — volcanic glass chosen not for elegance, but for how it betrays Na’vi biology. Obsidian fractures inside wounds, embedding shards that accelerated healing seals in to muscle and nerve. Pain lingers. Healing rituals fail. Songs cannot fully close the damage. What should be resilience becomes vulnerability.

Metal is added where obsidian ends —binding shards into place, reinforcing fractures, ensuring wounds are not cleanly undone. Mangkwan weapons are designed to corrupt healing itself, turning Eywa’s gifts against her people. This is not battlefield efficiency. It is spiritual warfare.

Mangkwan clothing follows the same logic. Their garments are ritualized harm: obsidian studs, barbed metal fittings, ash-cured leathers that reopen scars with every movement. Blood is not accidental. It is continuous offering. Healing implies forgiveness, and Varang does not forgive the world. Scars are renewed daily to ensure the body never forgets the truth she teaches: comfort is a lie, and mercy cannot be relied upon.

Even sustenance becomes ideology.

The Mangkwan diet under Varang is overwhelmingly meat-based, consumed in excess and often hunted alone. Solitary hunts strip away communal dependence and reinforce predatory self-sufficiency. Eating is no longer ritual or sharing —it is assertion. Life exists to be taken, not balanced. Where other Na’vi cultures emphasize reciprocity, the Mangkwan consume to remind themselves that scarcity once nearly erased them.

Varang’s most dangerous weapon, however, is not obsidian or metal.

It is emotion.

Through tsaheylu, her bond with her kulu becomes an amplifier rather than a harmonizing force. Rage, urgency, devotion, fear — all are sharpened and projected outward. When she rides, Mangkwan warriors feel her will neurologically . They are pulled forward not by command, but by shared emotional momentum. Retreat feels like betrayal. Doubt feels like weakness. Her leadership does not rely on orders; it relies on emotional dependency.

Varang does not promise peace. She promises recognition.

She tells her people that their pain is real, justified, and permanent —and that she will never lie to them about that. To follow her is to have suffering validated. To leave her is to admit that suffering may not have been inevitable. Few can survive that realization.

She wears metal because metal does not rot.

She bleeds because healing felt like betrayal.

She eats alone because sharing once meant loss.

She rules through pain because belief is easier to control than hope.

She is Pandora’s warning:

When balance is abandoned, survival may continue,

“Good morning, faceless stranger!” Gai says cheerily. “I believe our objectives aren’t at odds with one another. Let us pass amicably by one another.”

Honestly, she should be used to people jumping away from her at this point. Kiri kunoichi weren’t exactly known for being kind in any regard, really. Still— it had her flinching back just a touch as she grunted softly in response. His form felt… interesting, from her perspective.

Mushroom-like—

“Good morning! I think—” As she spoke, she tugged her cloak up slightly, then paused, humming in mild surprise as the sunlight warmed her skin. “Huh! It is—nice.”

Her head tilted toward him, curiosity bleeding through the easy tone. “Gonna be real though, big guy. I’m just slipping by, unless you’re hunting down an S-rank from the Mist too?”

A beat.