#ajirai

Warleader Ajirainakisei of Dotharl! Done by the massively talented @eliezelashinjae

I highly suggest them if you are looking into potential commissions, they are very friendly and excellent to work with!

Content is simply Ajirai carrying a Garlean’s head. Why? Because she killed him and took his head, that’s what she do. No, it is not Nero. Stop being racist, all Garleans don’t look same.

“You were right, Ajirai. Again. This place is beautiful.”

Itkai looked down at his wife, the telltale creases of a warm smile beginning to grow across his mouth. The mated pair sat by the river, watching as the sun slowly dipped beneath the horizon. They woke up early in the evening for this, a few bells to escape the hectic camp. A few bells to forget about being a Warleader or Warrior-Shaman. Just peace.

“I told you.” Ajirai rasped matter-of-factly, as a smile of her own began to crack at the corner of her lips.

Itkai chuckled, leaning back on a pair of elbows. After a small beckoning motion, Ajirai crawled over to rest her head on his stomach. The sunset was only just beginning, and it was beautiful. The nocturnal lifestyle did not grant many opportunities to witness it, so when it happened, it was special. A cool breeze lapped at the grass of the steppes, causing a gentle rustling sound to resonate from the land. The branches of the lone birch tree the two lay beneath rattled along with it - contributing to Othard’s natural song.

“When the whelp is born, I want to show her this place. I mean, when we come around here again.” She nodded. “She will likely almost be a woman, by then.” Ajirai said quietly, placing a hand on her swollen belly.

“Then we will.” He replied with no shortage of fondness to his tone.

“ There is an entire journey ahead of us, my love. Let us take it in stride.”

Ajirai stood above the cairn she had so angrily arranged, more than ten seasons ago, just by the river. The grass in the surrounding area was dead. Burned, black, war-torn.

How could the Empire rape such a beautiful land? The birds no longer sang in Othard. The lone, jagged stump that was once a birch tree lay soot-coated and mournful. The rainy season was well on it’s way, pooling puddles of the onyx residue at Ajirai’s feet. But that was near indistinguishable from such a lightless night. She looked upon the the cairn with tired eyes.

“I should have been buried with you two.” She whispered, but it was barely audible with the near-violent pattering of rain.

She placed a hand on the scar on her abdomen.

“I died that day.”

There was a clash of thunder and an arc of lightning in the sky, giving only the smallest bit of silver-blue illumination to the gravesite. Finding her courage, she tossed her old lance into the muck. She was here for a reason.

The airship she’d sent to it’s doom was her only diversion. While effective, it would only buy her so much time. She lowered herself to her knees, bowing her head to the cairn in reverence.

“Blessed is blood, for our sake. Both spear and hammer, shall bring it forth to us. For from blood we are born, of our mother’s womb - and in death, to blood we will return.”

She finished her prayer, such a simple thing. Why did she refuse to recite it when Itkai and her growing child died? Perhaps it was the anger, or the fear. The Warleader knew such things were blinding, but her actions were inexcusable. Profane.

“Itkai. Little one.” She welled up in the eyes, a small bit of saltwater to join the abundance of cold rain on her cheeks.

“I have failed you thrice. As a wife. A mother, and a Warleader. Please forgive me disturbing your rest.”

She began to pluck stone after stone from the cairn.

“It is time to lead once more. I did not think I ever would again, but..” She paused in her speaking, however her hands continued to disassemble the cairn.

“I need my bambar. Without it, I will fail you a fourth time. I cannot allow this.”

Eventually, the cairn was no more. A pile of rocks now lay beside a hole in the earth. Within this hole, the skeletal remains of her husband and unborn child, robbed from her with such cruelty. Beside them lie her bambar. A wicked-looking weapon, not quite a spear, not quite a mace. An old, sinister mess of blades and tungsten. The symbol of a Warleader.

She plucked it from it’s resting place, setting it beside her in the muck. Her eyes settled on her family’s remains for a long while and she eventually tugged down the tattered scarf she’d made for her husband, so long ago.

“I will return to you. Both of you.”

Unsheathing a small knife from her boot, the Dotharl cut off a portion of her scarf.

“When my body is prepared to fade from this word, I will lay with you as it happens.” She whispered, dropping the fabric into the pit.

“When this is whole once more,” She nodded to the worn bit of scarf.

“We will be together again.”