A tale to flesh out some backstory for Danya, but moreso for her and Mahji’s sister, Tensa. I have a whole plot rolling around in my head that I need to trya nd launch.
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She shouldn’t have helped him. It had always been too risky. She’d put his life and the life of that godsdamned Wolf ahead of her own. C’ndanya balled her hands into fists at the thought of it. The idiot had come back to the very jungle he’d been banished from! To hunt! Her lip curls with disdain the longer she things about it - but nothing could be done now. The pair had escaped, and she hadn’t been found out.
For a few weeks, at least.
Then the whispers began. Danya led the hunting party the wrong way. There were no tracks found the way we went - only the way we looped back. By the time we found the tracks, they were days old. She supported a traitor and his whore over her own flesh and blood.
Which is why she’d made preparations to leave and then had followed through. She’d find Mahji and drag him back by his tail if she had to. She understood why he had acted the way he had, had done the things he’d done, but he’d made her life a living hell for it. He’d stand for his judgment and she’d clear her own name… theoretically.
She was picking her way through the forest as silently as she could, carrying only the bare minimums - her spear and some supplies to make camp.
A snapping branch in the near distance made her stop in her tracks. She perked her ears forward and stared hard in the direction that the snap had come from. She’d left at dusk, just as the guards and scouts had changed rotations - she shouldn’t be encountering anyone at all. Seconds stretched to a full minute until she heard something else - something too close to avoid, a crashing that signified someone running through the underbrush.
She turned to face the sound but was too late. Qiri burst from the underbrush and had her by the throat with one hand before she could react in any way that mattered. She grabbed at his wrist as he drove her back against a tree with a feral growl, full of violence and intent. She tried to kick him, but he positioned himself just so her flailing did nothing more than annoy him.
“I shouldn’t be surprised that the second twin is as traitorous as the first. You spit upon the gifts bestowed to you, the generosity of the tribe! You were to be High Priestess, a beacon to guide them. Your morals are lacking.” He squeezed her throat slowly and she grunted and gasped in pain and surprise. “You will not escape your judgment like he did.”
She dug her nails into his forearm as hard as she could. It was all she could do. She’s tall and fit - but he was taller and fitter, a mountain compared to her. Already she was unable to draw enough of a breath in.. The worst part was the smile - he looked satisfied with her suffering.
Then, Danya saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Desperate, she snapped her gaze to it immediately, which tipped Qiri as well. He threw her to the side and whirled, just in time to see C’bharra lunge at him with a long, wicked knife extended. The nunh avoided the worst of the blow, knocking the blade to the side. He earned a deep laceration into his flank for his trouble, but avoided a stabbing.
“How dare you,” he snarled, before reaching out to try to grab Bharra by the arm. She slipped away from him and paced just out of reach, lowering herself down, ready to pounce, “I should have made an example of you when you stepped in to save the boy. He didn’t deserve the mercy.”
“He is my son, Qiri, and Danya is my daughter. They are yours as well.”
“I’ve sired many children,” he snapped back, slipping his spear off his back and stalking toward her. “But only two of them were traitors.”
“The only traitor is --” Bharra’s comeback is cut short as she is forced to parry away a forward thrust from the nunh’s spear. Danya remained crumbled on her side near the edge of the clearing. She held her throat and gasped for breath desperately.
The nunh and her mother perform their dangerous dance in front of her. Bharra was small and lithe, but Qiri had reach and strength. Each thrust and swing of Qiri’s lance gained him ground, and the tide appeared to steadily turn to Qiri’s favor.
Then, he made a mistake. He took too much of a step forward, over extended on one of his swings. Bharra ducked under it and lunged forward, knife held low and ready. She thrust it forward and it looked like it would land cleanly in his belly.
Until Qiri dropped his elbow down hard against her temple and she dropped to the ground with a cry of pain. The blade still connected with his belly, but without the force behind it to actually bury into him. He was wounded, but not critically. With a growl, he pulled his lance back and raised it up before slamming the butt of it into Bharra’s gut, forcing her breath out of her.
“Mama!” Danya managed to gasp, trying to get to her feet. She froze when Qiri turned the spear around and pointed the bladed end against Bharra’s belly.
“How did you know where to find me?” He inquired, voice unnaturally calm. His eyes never left Danya.
“Tensa is not a subtle child,” Bharra managed to say through gasps for breath. “Less so when you are spotted carrying her away to help you with your twisted mission. Isn’t that right, dear?”
Bharra turned to look to the edge of the clearing and Danya followed her gaze. Tucked away against a tree was her younger sister, leaning heavily on her staff as she always did. She was smaller than the rest of the women her age, frail and weak, constantly short of breath. She earned her keep - and Qiri’s grace - by being a wealth of information and a skilled, albeit slow, healer.
“Tensa,” the heartbreak in Danya’s voice was too much for the younger woman to handle, and she looked away.
“Mm.” Was the only response from the nunh. He finally tore his eyes away from Danya, focused them back on Bharra. “You always were more trouble than you were worth, High Priestess. A shame you were gored by a boar this eve.”
Without another word he drove the spear head into the downed woman’s belly and twisted. In unison Bharra and Danya screamed, both a wail of pain - one physical, one emotional. Danya finally forced herself to her feet.
“Mama..!”
“Run, Danya..!” Came Bharra’s response, forced through gritted teeth and tears.
There was a moment where time slowed down. Tears freely welled in Danya’s eyes and she felt frozen in place - until she felt Qiri’s gaze on her. Then the words registered, and the fear outweighed the grief, and she turned and ran. She crashed through the underbrush with abandon. She didn’t stop to think or to plot a course - she ran. She ran for what felt like hours, as many miles are her legs could carry her.
She only stopped when she literally collapsed. She was well out of the territory of the Coeurls, nearly out of the main part of the jungle itself. She laid where she fell and made no attempt to move, and there she grieved for hours.
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Qiri had made no attempt to follow Danya. He chose to let her flee, though he stood stock still, radiating rage and frustration. Tensa was keenly aware of it and did her best to stay quiet and still at the tree line. The nunh continued to stare into the forest for long moments before Tensa couldn’t help herself and coughed quietly, covering her mouth with one hand.
His gaze flicked to her immediately and her ears wilted back. He looked down to Bharra next, but she had lost consciousness - and would soon perish - from the wound to her belly. He sighed sharply through his nose and approached her, kneeling down beside her, holding one arm out to her. He seemed unconcerned with his wounds, and she dared not mention them.
“Come. We return home. She escaped, but now none of them will be a thorn in our sides.” His voice was eerily calm, in stark contrast to the fire she saw still burning in his eyes. Tensa simply nodded to him and stepped forward into his waiting embrace. He scooped her up, cradled her against his chest, and then turned to walk back to the village.
She shifted the staff around to her back and let it dangle there from the belt that held it in place. She wrapped her arms around Qiri’s neck and they traveled in silence. The resolution of the conflict tonight was bittersweet. Danya escaped, but Bharra was dead - but there was a great pit of guilt that had formed in her belly for celebrating such a fact. Bharra had favored her siblings, but had loved her all the same.
Danya and Mahji, too, had loved her.
But they had left her behind. Left her to the devices and the cruelties of the other younglings. The priestesses who mocked her and laughed at her, and the Tias who insulted her and spurned her. None would help her when she struggled, not even with things that were normally done in groups.
Except for Qiri. He had always had a soft spot for her. Cared for her and encouraged her. Gave her opportunities that she otherwise wouldn’t have had.
And yet…
Her reverie was snapped when she found herself being put down gently outside the tribe’s shrine to Azeyma, which was inside a small but well-kept building in the center of the village. She smiled tentatively at Qiri, who smiled back.
“You did well, Tensa,” he says, reaching up to gently tussle her hair. “Your faith and loyalty to the Coeurls will be rewarded. This, I assure you.”
Tensa nodded to him and he turned to leave. She watched him make his way over to a pair of scouts, heard him speak with convincing concern about Bharra - at which point, she turned away and made her way into the shrine building. She couldn’t bear to listen to him.
She shut and latched the door behind her and leaned her staff against the wall near it. She then turned and limped her way around the small room, lighting the candles one by one. Even such basic movements took her time and caused her to breathe just a little more labored. A task that should take but a few minutes took her nearly fifteen. When she finished, she lowered herself to kneel in front of the hand-crafted statuette of Azeyma that acted as the shrine’s centerpiece.
She was quiet for a few long moments, eyes fixated on the ground and ears wilted back against her hair.
“Azeyma,” she finally said, her voice quiet and respectful, “One of Your daughters is lost and afraid. I fear I am full of hate and anger. I celebrated as my siblings were hunted. I do not mourn for my now-dead mother. I feel no regret.”
She fell silent then, and her ears wilted back further against her hair. Saying it out loud made it so much worse. She waited for a response. A stirring of the wind. A whisper of advice. Anything.
“Please,” she pleaded, voice wavering, “Please, I need Your guidance. I have been alone for so long. Have I not been a dedicated daughter? Have I not prayed enough? Followed Your word..?”
She fell silent again. She waited. She waited, and she grew more stricken. Tears welled up in her eyes and flowed freely down her cheeks.
“Why won’t You answer..? How am I to know the way if --”
“Has that selfish witch ever answered you? Or any of the rest of your tribe, for that matter?” The voice was smooth and gentle and came from behind. Tensa turned to look. She knew she had locked the door behind her, and it hadn’t been opened.
The voice belonged to a woman - she was tall and strikingly beautiful. Her hair was a fiery red and her eyes brilliant gold. She positively glowed there by the door - but every now and again, it was like her form flickered, and there was darkness around the edges. Tensa watched her warily, but didn’t feel particularly threatened.
“No, I mean it,” the woman continued, striding closer to the shrine and to Tensa, “Not disrespectfully, mind you. Factually. Has she ever answered you or yours? I don’t believe so, and -”
“Who are you?” Tensa asked as firmly as she could manage.
“Hmm? Oh, oh, of course. Well, my name isn’t important - not right now. What is important, though, is that I am the guardian spirit and local deity that does care about you and yours. I bless your hunts and your raiding parties. I help your Nunhs stay strong. I guide your shaman and your priestesses.” She ticked off all her duties on her fingers as she spoke, though Tensa looked skeptical.
“You do not give your name, and I do not know it. How am I to believe your word?”
The entity is silent after Tensa’s question. She hummed to herself, pondered it. “Do you recall,” she began, with a gentle affection in her voice and a smile to match, “When you were young, and you were picking herbs in the forest alone? They had sent you with a guard, but he’d wandered off to do whatever it is he did. You were cornered by an angry boar, yes?”
The young Coeurl stared at the woman a moment before she nodded. She was clearly unnerved.
“None came to save you. You couldn’t run fast enough or shout loud enough. But the boar was deterred either way. Charged you and then stopped. Squealed and ran off into the woods again.” She nodded as she spoke, and Tensa nodded along. The woman smiled brightly and motioned at herself. “That is thanks to me. And do you know why I chose to save you?”
Tensa shook her head meekly. The woman’s smile only broadened and she approached the frail young woman again, now right next to her. She knelt down beside her. “Because your faith is pure in a setting where you would be forgiven to lose it. Because you are strong in the face of frailty. Because you do not stop fighting. A shame that Azeyma has not seen fit to reward you for that.”
The Coeurl’s ears wilted back at that and she looked back to the statuette of Azeyma that she had prayed at every day since she was old enough to do so. Her faith had been unbroken and unwavering. She finally cleared her throat. “We were all born with challenges laid out before us. We must navigate the path that She set before us and --”
“What challenges did your siblings have?” The woman asked firmly but not unkindly. “What true challenges did Mahji face? Danya? The wrath and anger of the Nunhs? Have you not suffered the same, mm? But therein lies the difference. Mahji was blessed with strength and athleticism. Danya was blessed with powerful aether and the mind and imagination to use it to her fullest potential. There is a reason they were feared and loathed.”
The woman fell silent and let her words settle. She saw the tears begin to shine in Tensa’s eyes again, but didn’t push. Not yet. The Coeurl sniffled but sat up straight. She did not speak. The woman tried not to smile.
“And then Mahji was banished after picking a fight he knew he could not win. When he returned, it was with another woman from another tribe. What a punishment! He even met with Danya - and she helped him escape. I don’t doubt he put it into her mind to leave as well. But did either of them come to rescue Tensa? They said they loved you, but where were they?”
The woman leaned forward, reaching out to stroke the back of her hand gently down Tensa’s cheek, loving and affectionate.
“They left you behind. All alone. At the mercy of the Coeurls.”
She let silence fall over them again. Only the wind blowing through the jungle and distant voices reached them for a few long moments. Eventually, Tensa spoke. Her voice was full of bitterness and anger.
“Yes. They left me behind,” she said, her words deliberate and slow as always, with generous pauses to catch her breath as needed. “I have always been an afterthought. A burden. To my mother. To them. Even if they did love me, I was weight they could not carry. What of it? What would you have me do? I walk the path Azeyma has given me.”
This time, the woman heard the cynicism in Tensa’s voice. The faith was cracked. It’s all she could do not to break into a grin, to drop the facade. “I would give you a gift. I would ease your burdens - soothe your frailty, strengthen your aether, grant you the ability to stand on your own and command respect. I ask only that you place your faith in me and I will reward you in ways you cannot yet imagine.”
Tensa studied the other woman. She was strikingly beautiful. Her aether burned bright and strong. But every now and again, there was that flicker of darkness around the edges. There was danger here - but her bitterness and hurt and anger was strong.
“And what is the name of the woman that I am to put my faith into?” She asked again.
“Azaervia,” came the immediate response, and the candles in the room flickered. Tensa felt power in that name. “You must renounce Azeyma, and claim me as your deity. You need fear nothing, little one.”
There was a beat of hesitation, a flicker of suspicion on the Coeurl’s face, before she spoke with confidence fueled by her anger and spite, “No longer shall I worship Azeyma or all that she stands for. This night, I renounce her, and swear my faith to Azaervia.”
“That was perfect, my dear,” purred the woman as she reached out to take Tensa’s hands in her own. “Now, close your eyes. Relax. Let me grant you the gift I have promised you.”
The candles flickered around them again and the air felt suddenly stale, but what was done was done. Tensa let Azaervia take her hands and nodded at her words. With a deep, steadying breath, she closed her eyes and waited.
There was another shift in the aether - one of the few things that Tensa was incredibly sensitive to. In that moment she felt a downburst of wind and knew the candles were blown out. The aether remained strong - but now it was incredibly so, and dark as night. Her eyes shot open and locked on Azaervia, who smiled wickedly back.
The woman was still strikingly beautiful - but was clearly no goddess. A pair of dangerous looking horns curled back from her forehead, settling over braided hair. Her eyes were a deep, unnatural purple. She had a pair of leathery wings folded tight to her back, and a long, whip-like tail. “I told you to keep your eyes closed, little one. Tensa of the Coeurls, you have placed your faith in me. Now, reap your rewards and accept your gift.”
Tensa was frozen in place. She couldn't scream. She felt the magic that held her in place but could do nothing to fight it. Azaervia seemed to grow blurry for a moment and then burst into a cloud of thick, dark smoke. The smoke swirled around the Coeurl for a moment before it forced its way into her open mouth and up into her nose.
She felt like she was choking but could not cough. The choking turned to suffocation as the smoke filled her lungs, and then her belly. There was a moment or two where she was sure she would die, and tears rolled freely down her face. Then she felt the smoke disperse - felt it started to spread through her body, a shock of cold that ran through her veins from the tip of her ears all the way to the tip of her tail. When it ended, she was left gasping for air and collapsed forward onto hands and knees. She shivered uncontrollably and coughed violently. She felt Azaerzia there. In her head. In her body.
The effects were felt immediately as well. Once her coughing fit ended, she could breathe easier. Her limbs did not feel as heavy or as clumsy. She felt a stronger and more open connection to her aether. She felt relief and excitement - and then felt immediate guilt for feeling it. Azaerzia chuckled, a disconnected, eerie sound that was as if it were one of her own thoughts and not a separate voice.
‘You will gain more strength in the coming days. I cannot repair all the damage, so you will never be cured - not physically. But your magical prowess will be unmatched, I assure you. I am not a woman who makes my promises lightly.’
Azaerzia hummed for a moment, and then spoke again.
‘The first order of business will be earning you the title of High Priestess, yes? Let’s get some rest, little one. I will help you realize your potential in the morning.’
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Long-ish story from Mahji’s past, sparked in part after a fight with @sibutum ‘s lovely Y’tajha. I’ve wanted to write it for a bit but the fight gave me added motivation. For anyone wondering why Mahji’s typical accent-heavy speech pattern isn’t here, it’s because they speak their own dialect and I figured it wouldn’t make sense! ... I’m also lazy for a piece this long but go with that first thing.
The door to the little cabin they called home was thrown open with such force that it slammed into the wall opposite, causing Danya to jump from her spot on the floor in front of her makeshift shrine to Azeyma. Mahji strode in with purpose, his jaw set and cheeks tear stained. He clutched something tight in one of his hands. The sound of music and happy chatter from the middle of the village were heard before that door swung back shut.
“Mahji,” she called, tone guarded. Before she could even stand, he shoved what he was holding against her chest.
“Hold these,” and then he made his way into his room. She heard him pulling his leathers off, and pulling different leathers on. She looked down at what he had handed her and frowned - two necklaces, both made of leather and coeurl fangs and claws, but accented differently. One with stones of orange and yellow; the other, stones of blue and purple.
“Why do you have both of these -” She paused, realizing her hand was wet - and red, “Is… is this blood?”
Mahji appeared a moment later. He was dressed in blackened leathers with some green accents and a coeurl paw marker - war leathers. His lance was gripped in hand, and he eyed his twin a moment before he nodded. “It’s blood.”
He said nothing else as he strode back out the front door. Danya was left speechless for but a moment before she darted after him, “You’re going to do something stupid. Mahji, stop.”
He ignored her and made his way toward the village, passing by more than one curious tribemate. Danya’s ears pinned back to her head and she grabbed her brother by the arm. “She wouldn’t want you to do this -”
“Don’t pretend you speak for her,” he snapped back, glaring down at her fiercely enough to cause her to shrink back and pin her ears to her head. He hesitated before his tone softened, “I need to do this.”
“I know what you’re going to do, and -”
“You’re not going to talk me out of it.”
“ - they’re going to kill you, and -”
“Danya,” he stopped walking and turned to her. They had reached the destination anyway - a decently sized circle of dirt in the dead center of the village. A fighting ring. For fun, for honor, for trials. “Enough.”
She faltered at his simple but firm words. Her ears wilted further but finally she relented and nodded once. She backed away from him and offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
He returned it before he stepped into the ring properly and strode to the middle of it. The chatter of the village and the music and the laughter had not stopped. No one seemed to pay him mind - until he raised his voice to issue his challenge. “Qiri. Tuhkeh. Rehnuh. I demand my trial by combat, that I may unseat you and make you answer for your crimes.”
That got some attention. The chatter died down. The music paused. At first, there was no answer. Mahji stood unflinching - patient and resolute. They were cruel and conniving, but they would not deny tradition. The village began to gather around the ring and the chatter returned, now nervous and questioning.
“What is he doing?” Tensa asked, as she settled in beside Danya. The frail young woman was breathless, and leaned heavily on her staff. She’d hurried through the crowd as best she could.
Danya spared a glance down at their sister. Her shoulders slumped. “You heard him. He’s issued his challenge.”
“To be Nunh? Then why would he challenge all three at -” Tensa paused as Danya held up both necklaces in her red-stained hand. Tensa’s face and ears fell in unison. “Oh, Mahji, you idiot.”
“On what grounds,” came a commanding male voice, as Qiri finally made an appearance. The crowd split for him willingly. He was the eldest Nunh and had held the position through cunning and cruelty. To his left was Rehnuh, small and wiry but clever. To his right was Tuhkeh, of average height and build, but the best shot in the jungle. Qiri repeated himself as he entered the ring proper.
“On what grounds do you have the rights to issue this challenge?”
“I have passed my rites and my trials, earned my ink and my armor, and I am a hale and healthy Tia of the Coeurl. These are the rights that allow me to issue this challenge,” Mahji answered, playing to tradition in the face of his rage and anguish. “Furthermore, you have murdered an innocent in cold blood.”
Shocked murmuring began at the front of the crowd and raced to the back. Qiri looked entirely undeterred.
“Neither she nor your relationship with her was innocent. She was a Keeper and you sought to call her mate. I name you traitor to the Coeurl,” here he had to pause, because the murmuring had turned into shouts and cries of disbelief. As it died down, he continued, “Your challenge is rejected and a new one issued - trial by combat to prove your innocence or confirm your guilt.”
“Deal,” Mahji confirmed nearly before Qiri stopped speaking. This had never really been about becoming Nunh. This had been about getting the three of them in the ring and forcing their hand. He shifted his weight into a defensive stance, lance held low and ready. “May Azeyma guide our blows and protect the innocent.”
Surprise flashed across Qiri’s features for a brief moment before he nodded. All three Nunhs had come prepared - Rehnuh with his daggers, already drawn and ready; Qiri with his lance, which he shrugged off of his back; and Tuhkeh, with his bow. He looked the most reluctant of the three. He was the last to draw his weapon and, even then, did not pull an arrow to nock just yet.
Tense moments of silence followed as no one moved to act first. Finally, Qiri gave a little nod to Rehnuh and the man sprang into action. He darted forward at Mahji, attempted to get into his guard and avoid the lance - only to have the younger Coeurl swing at him with said lance and keep the distance.
Rehnuh gave a hop-step and came up short and then paced around just out of reach, circled Mahji like he was prey. “How long did the moon bitch end up living, anyway?” He taunted quietly, so none but they could hear, “Took bets, see. Qiri thought you might mercy kill her. I told him you didn’t have it in you.”
Mahji’s eyes flashed with anger that bordered on rage, but he didn’t take the bait. Not yet. He kept his feet moving and his lance readied. He never turned his back to the other two Nunhns - he didn’t anticipate this remaining a fair fight for long.
“I knew it,” Rehnuh grinned cruelly, flashing crooked teeth and unnaturally sharpened fangs, “You let her suffer!”
Mahji gave no verbal response - or not any coherent response. His lip curled and he snarled viciously. He stepped forward and jabbed with his lance, which Rehnuh sidestepped as anticipated. The Nunh took the opportunity to try to dart in, but Mahji was quicker. He shifted his stance and slammed the shaft of the lance into the other man’s side, sent him stumbling.
The lance is then pulled back and thrust forward again. The Nunh tried to leap away but can’t quite clear, and the pointed end dug into his hip. He cried out in surprise and Mahji smiled mirthlessly, twisting the weapon and drawing a louder shout out of him. Then, he heard the familiar sound of a bowstring releasing an arrow and whirled, pulling the lance back and facing Tuhkeh - just as the arrow whistled past his cheek.
A warning that Qiri had joined the fray - because if Tuhkeh had wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Mahji set his feet and brought the lance up to parry a vicious horizontal swing from the eldest Nunh. They traded four or five blows before Rehnuh once more joined the fray, having flanked Mahji and waited for an opportunity.
He lunged forward at the Tia, daggers drawn back, just as Qiri swung for Mahji’s head. The lance was ducked before it could behead him, and he turned to face Rehnuh. He dropped the lance away from one hand and swung his now free-hand forward in a powerful jab. He caught the charging Nunh in the jaw and set him sprawling - but took the dagger to his ribs for his trouble. It was not deep, and the blade did not embed, but it stung and burned and was distracting.
Which meant he was unable to get back into proper defensive position for Qiri, who had come back around and brought his own lance - with its own dangerous axe-like head - down over top. The Tia is able to fall backward onto the ground to avoid it, but now he he scrambled to even get to his feet. He saw Tuhkeh nock another arrow and loose it - only to watch it nearly take off Qiri’s ear.
The eldest Nunh turned to shout at the hunter, who shouted right back about sight lines and how important they were. Mahji forced himself to his feet, now with a limp. He raised his lance just in time to parry a blow from Rehnuh, who seemed perfectly capable of ignoring his own wound. The smaller Nunh ducked down as if to come up underneath the lance and Mahji bit on the feint.
In the next moment he was blinded - near literally - by pain as Rehnuh brought his knife down over his face. He hadn’t been close enough to tear the eye out or cause more damage than he did, blessedly - but he opened up a nasty gash from forehead to mid-cheek over his right eye, and the blood effectively blinded the Tia from that eye.
Mahji’s painful cry turned into a feral shout and he lunged forward, slamming both of his hands - still gripping the lance - into the Nunh’s chest. Rehnuh stumbled and fell and Mahji brought the lance up, bladed tip pointed down, but has no change to finish the job. Instead, Tuhkeh’s arrow finally landed true, striking him in one of is shoulders. In a rage, he turned to the hunter - just in time to see Qiri swinging his lance for the back of his knees.
The lance struck him hard and his knees buckled. The lance was dropped instinctively as he tried to catch himself from hitting the ground, but Qiri wasn’t done - the Nunh drew the weapon back and reversed the swing, cracking Mahji right in the face across the bridge of his noise. This caused the Tia to double over backward. Before he could recover from the shock, he had the lance’s tip to his throat. Qiri drew it back to finish the job -
“Enough!” Shouted Bharra as she entered the ring. She was diminutive but carried herself with grace and strength, and her amber eyes sparkled with anger. “He is beaten.”
“He is a traitor,” Qiri growled back, lance tip still held to Mahji’s throat.
Bharra lowered her voice as she stepped right up to him, “You and I have very different definitions of what constitutes traitorous acts, my dearest Nunh. You will not kill him.”
“He does not get special treatment just because he is your kit, blessed Priestess,” Qiri shot back.
“He is yours as much as mine, though I know that matters not. No, you will not kill him because you cherish your precious power too much. He is beloved despite your efforts to break him. Kill him and watch your kingdom burn.”
Qiri hesitated, but then lifted his gaze from the bloodied Tia to look around. Well more than the majority stood with hands over their mouths, ears lowered, tears in their eyes. His lip curled before he drove the lance down sharply - beside Mahji’s head.
“He will be banished,” he shouted, before anyone got the wrong impression. “As a traitor to the Coeurls, you will no longer be welcome here. If you return, you will be killed on sight. You will be escorted to the edge of our territory and left.”
“After he is healed,” Bharra said, nearly as loudly, “And he will be provided with his clothes, his leathers, and his packs - all of which he has earned. Now - go about your business! There will be no changes among the Nunh’s tonight.”
Qiri glared at her and she smiled back. Danya jogged forward and knelt beside Mahji, frowning deeply at the state of his face. Tensa, struggling to keep up as she always did, was there not long after. The Nunhs eventually departed, with Tuhkeh giving an apologetic look to Bharra on his way.
“Get him up,” Bharaa said, her tone gentling near immediately. “And back to the baths. We’ll clean him up. It looks worse than it is, girls.”
A bell later, and Mahji was tended to as much as he would allow. They had argued over the scarring. Eventually, he had relented on two: his nose, which had to be set and the gash closed, and the arrow wound to his shoulder. The gash over his eye he had allowed to be healed to the point where it would scar but not bleed, and he had allowed the same for his knife wound.
Now, he sat with his two sisters and his mother, waiting for his escorts to come take him away. He was dressed in his traveling leathers and had two packs of gear - his hunting gear, and supplies to make it to wherever he was going to go. His lance leaned against the wall near the doorway, and Bharra had secured him some food and water.
They had been silent for the past several minutes. Mahji stared into the mirror across the room from him. In his hands, he once again held both those necklaces that he’d given Danya earlier. The bloodied one had been cleaned up lovingly, at least. Tensa sat behind him, finishing the braids of his hair.
The door to the bathhouse finally opened and Mahji stood without a word. Bharra stepped in front of him before he could get far, reached up and took his face in her hands. She forced him to look down at her and away from the mirror.
“You and Danya were born together, under auspicious stars, and each with beautiful odd-eyes. These are portents, Mahji. You are destined for greatness and you have been since your birth. Never stray far from the path where your heart leads you, and you will find it.”
She flattened her hand over his heart against his chest, and smiled up at him. She spoke firmly and evenly, but he saw the tears sparkle in her eyes. He hesitated and fought the urge to lash out - that it was all a lie, that he was empty now, that there was nothing more to follow. Eventually, he managed to smile at her reassuringly.
“Have to go now, mama.” He leaned down to kiss her forehead, but couldn’t bring himself to give the same type of affection to his sisters for fear of breaking down. He stepped past her and kept his chin held high. He was escorted by four armed guards - carefully selected by the Nunhs. Each of the guards carried some of his gear, so he was completely unarmed.
They walked and they walked, and they didn’t follow the normal paths. He had a sense of where they were going, but couldn’t place it entirely. Finally, two bells in, he spoke. “Where in the world did they tell you to leave me?”
There was silence that followed, before the apparent lead guard spoke up. He sounded both amused and apologetic, as if he felt bad for enjoying the job.
“Jaguar territory. Qiri says they haven’t got much love for the Coeurl,” and with that, the man came to a stop and turned to Mahji. His gear was redistributed, “Said if you can survive this, he’ll be surprised. Bharra said you were to be banished - she never specified where.”
Mahji took his gear back gratefully, looking amused in a ‘Why The Fuck Wouldn’t They?’ kind of way as he’s told where they are. The guard cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak again, wished Mahji good luck. The Tia snorted as he set off on his own, sending a prayer to Azeyma to help guide him.
It had been a long time since Mahji had had an issue with anything remotely related to smithing. He had taken on a few custom orders that had tested him, but nothing like this current project.
“Just fucking - hammer out th’ way --” His arm came overhead, hammer in hand, in a compact motion that was all strength and no finesse. “ -- that you’re fucking s’posed t’.”
But his raging swing left the piece more uneven than it was a few moments before. He let out a sharp sigh through his nose and leaned forward, resting his hands on the anvil and staring at the metal he was working with. Sweat dripped from his brow and sizzled when it hit the heated but quickly cooling metal.
“Ain’t got time for y’fucking bullshite,” he growled downward, as if the blade he was working on might apologize and cooperate.
Frustration and worry were running high recently, and he felt it coming to a boiling point. But commissions and their deadlines had to be met and there was no room for more time away from the forge beyond what he’d already taken.
With a deep, steadying breath he lifted his hammer again and idly spun the project around on the anvil to try and hammer out the mistake he had just made. With more technique but no less strength, he swung and struck true - right on what must have been a weak point in the metal.
The blade shattered in two immediately and there was a moment where time stood still. His stomach fell first as he watched hours of work break before his eyes. The pit that was left behind was quickly filled with a familiar feeling - a hot rush of anger morphing into rage, quickly followed by the feeling of his aether stirring around him.
A primal, feral shout left him in the next moment. The hammer was the first to go, thrown with violent intent to his right, where it imbedded itself in the wall. He surrounded himself in the familiar flames called forth so easily by now, focusing his frustration at first on the metal on the anvil before him.
His flames, under control but barely, quickly flared into a localized inferno, jumping to what it could to fuel itself. The now near-molten metal was shoved from the anvil to the floor, and Mahji turned as if to leave the forge entirely, to go find some other target, something he could really tear into - only to falter quite suddenly. His flames, raging one moment, near-extinguish in the next.
He stumbled a step and then dropped to his knee, feeling breathless and shaky. He rested one hand on the ground and the other on his knee as he tried to gather himself. There was distinct scent of burnt wood, and the forge was hotter than normal - which was impressive in his own right.
Slowly, he worked his way back to his feet. On the floor was the pile of metal he had reheated to near liquid state. In the wall was the head of the hammer he had been working with - the handle burned away. In fact, the burnt wood was nearly all the handles of his tools. Luckily, he had been intelligent enough to not keep more than scrap paper in the forge, and to have it built with stone and metal.
Still, some of the stone was blackened, and the metal surfaces too. He swallowed hard and ran a hand back through his braids, and now the pit in his stomach was filled with a cold, creeping fear. He knew what had happened - because he recognized it for what it was. But he didn’t remember doing it.
It was getting worse. There was no one harming Lefay, or someone else he cared for, to trigger it. He hadn’t even been in a fight.
The blade had shattered. His temper had flared. Everything else was blurry.
WARNING: This is probably the heaviest piece that I’ve ever written. Really, I’m proud of it. That said, it deals with the following topics: Death, mental illness / madness, and suicide.
I don’t normally put warnings but I know not everyone wants to read something depressing so I figured I’d let you know. I hope you do because, again, I’m proud of this one.
It is a hypothetical scene based on one of the outcomes that is possible given Aebbe’s current plot with her mate. It’s been stuck in my head and I had to get it out. If you do read it, I’d love to hear feedback. The rest is under the cut.
“Go away, go away. Please go away,” Jaina’s whimpering from the bedroom of the seaside cottage was how it started. It was a familiar cadence by now, and Aebbe was already rising from the chair in the main room when Jaina spoke again, “Aebbe - AEBBE!”
The hyur made her way back into the bedroom, straight for the bed. Jaina was huddled in the bed, against the wall, wide-eyed and shaking. Her eyes darted around the room, moving from one unseen face to another. She was, by now, thin and malnourished. Dark bags beneath her eyes. Aebbe slid into bed beside her, slow and steady, and only finished approaching when Jaina focused on her.
The small miqo’te immediately tucked herself into Aebbe’s side, buried her face into the woman’s shoulder, “They’re here - they’re here and they’re yelling and they won’t stop.”
Aebbe said nothing, only slipped her arms around her mate and held her close, rocking her gently. A moment later, and she was singing a quiet lullaby in a hoarse and tired voice. Nothing worked any longer to fully calm her. The lullabies, the drugs, the alcohol - they had all stopped calming her entirely long ago. They’d been here months, and the descent had been steady and fierce.
The strongest woman Aebbe had ever known was a shattered husk, and there was nothing that she could do about it. Tears had stopped flowing when the voices became constant, and her fate became crystal clear. She had known what coming here with Jaina meant, eventually. She had accepted it.
The lullaby, at the very least, gave something for Jaina to still anchor to. To focus on. She clung to Aebbe, shaking and whimpering and begging. Eventually, she stilled and quieted enough in Aebbe’s arms that the hyur drifted off into another restless loss of consciousness.
She woke to a fit of coughing from the woman that rested against her side, followed by ragged breathing. Aebbe stared at the ceiling blankly, but she felt her chest tighten. She’d heard breathing like that before, when her own mother finally wasted away. She reached up to gently stroke her hand through Jaina’s hair, over her ears. There was no responding wiggle from the miqo’te’s ear - a sure sign something was wrong.
The cottage was silent save for their breathing, and the distant sounds of crashing waves against the beach. It remained that way for some time - she’d long stopped trying to track it - before another cough rattled from Jaina, and the smaller woman stirred.
“Aebbe,” she spoke weakly, but there was a difference in her tone. No panic. No fear. No desperation.
Aebbe blinked a few times to refocus and looked down at the woman, and she found Jaina looking up at her with sudden, intense clarity, though the light behind her eyes was weak and faded.
“Aebbe Spera,” Jaina said, with a tired, tender smile, “I love you. I don’t feel well. Can you stay with me?”
The hyur found her throat and chest tightening up at her words. At the clarity and focus. Aebbe immediately and vigorously nodded - it had been weeks since she’d look so clear-eyed. Still, she can barely manage a response, “Yes.”
Jaina nodded and rested her head back against the crook of her mate’s shoulder and throat. Silence fell over them again, save for the ragged breathing of Jaina and the soft sounds as Aebbe stroked her hair and ears gently.
“It’s getting dark,” Jaina is the one who broke the silence again. Aebbe looked around the well-lit room, did her best not to tense up as she steeled herself.
“Is it?” Aebbe replied, and cleared her throat, “Do you think you can rest now?”
She’s feels the faintest of nods against her shoulder. “Mmmhmm…”
Aebbe covered up a sob by clearing her throat again, and she held the small miqo’te closer to her in that moment. “I love you, Jaina.”
There was no verbal response, and no physical response. Just Jaina’s ragged breathing and Aebbe’s forcefully controlled breathing. She didn’t want to upset her now. Not when she finally may have found peace, even if she knew what finding that peace meant. Jaina’s breathing continued to slow, continued to grow weaker.
Until finally, she sucked in one great breath and let it out in a long, slow sigh. Aebbe set her jaw and waited, hoped, prayed for another breath to come. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty.
Aebbe’s own breathing finally began again when it was clear Jaina was gone. The little woman was limp in her arms, and the hyur was numb. She knew what to do next, but she couldn’t bring herself to move for a few moments. Finally, she does. She gently slipped away from Jaina, laid the woman on her back. She looked down at those beautiful crimson eyes, with the light gone from them, and reached out to gently close them.
Then, she prepared. She changed from her traveling clothes into a simple but pretty dress. She washed her hair and face, and then tied it up in a ponytail. She grabbed her sling bag and emptied it out, save for a full bottle of pills and a bottle of rum. Every motion was well-practiced, and she moved from one pre-programmed move to another.
Back into the bedroom she went, and she undressed Jaina. She traced the woman’s scars with her fingertips gently before she went about dressing her again, in a far more formal dress than what Aebbe wore. Pretty and white, with decorative frills and accents. A dress she never got to wear. It didn’t fit the way it should given that she had wasted away.
Aebbe took a few moments to gaze down at her, before she gently slipped her arms around her and lifted her up from the bed. She worked her way out of the bedroom and then out the front door, and she walked down to the beach with her. Tied to a makeshift dock was an equally makeshift boat - a seaworthy raft, really, that Aebbe had made herself. It would fit them both, and take them to where they were going.
She gingerly stepped onto the raft and laid Jaina down first, settled her on her back and folded her hands over her belly. She made sure she looked comfortable and peaceful. Only then did Aebbe untie the boat from the dock and push away with her oar. She waited until they were in the current of the sea before she settled down beside Jaina again, looked down at her with sad, deadened eyes all her own.
Everything was taken care of back home, but she ran through the checklist again. The children were with Hana and Khuja. All their gil was in an account for said children. The house had been paid off, signed over to them. She had long ago written a letter and left it on the table of the cabin, to be found when one of them came to check on them once a month, as they had done since Jaina and her had left.
With her checklist complete, Aebbe focused on the journey instead. Her eyes were set on a lighthouse in the distance. She cleared her throat, and did her best to sing a song she had hoped she wouldn’t have to sing for years.
“Love of mine, someday you will die,” she began, and now the emotions came bubbling back up. She fought them down, stroked Jaina’s hair gently, “But I’ll be close behind and I’ll follow you into the dark.”
“No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white,” she continued, with cracking voice. She laid down on her side, so she could continue stroking her hair with one hand, and take her hand with her other, “Just our hands clasped so tight, waiting... “ She choked up, cleared her throat, and closed her eyes. She waited for it to pass, gave it a few moments.
She opened her eyes again, and the lighthouse was closer now. Close enough that she felt it was time. She sat up and opened her bag, pulling out those pills and the bottle of rum. She set them down carefully on the raft and continued singing, “If there’s no one beside you when your soul embarks, then I’ll follow you into the dark…”
She opened the rum first, to make sure it was ready. Then, she opened the bottle of pills and poured them into her hand - she didn’t count, because it didn’t matter. She sucked in a breath and brought her hand to her mouth, tilting her head back as she threw the pills back. She chased them with rum - copious amounts of it, even.
She shuddered when she finally put the bottle down. She turned back to the lighthouse. Yes, they were close now. She knew the cocktail would work quick. She hadn’t eaten in days herself. She swallowed hard and tried not to focus on it. The time for regret was long past. She laid back down beside Jaina and wrapped an arm around her waist, staying close.
She was vaguely aware of the water crashing into the rocks that they were heading for. It was far away though, distant. She was quickly growing numb. The edges of her vision already fading. She smiled, as she rested beside her mate. She continued her song, as her words began to slow and slur, “The time for sleep is now, but it’s nothing to cry about.”
She sucked in a breath and paused as the raft struck one of the rocks, and the integrity of the whole boat was instantly compromised. She hoped she would be out before they were both completely below water.
“‘Cause we’ll hold each other… soon, in the blackest - blackest of rooms.” She murmured, as she closed her eyes and clung to Jaina. Her singing stopped, and consciousness started to fade. She clung to it out of some baser instinct.
“I told you,” she murmured to no one, “I told you, I would always walk the path beside you.”
As the water finally overtook the boat, Aebbe slipped away, and the sea reclaimed them both.
Another hypothetical piece along the same vein as this one here.
This time, it’s more of Aebbe’s struggles. It’s looking more and more like this is the path that she’ll end up on in her story.
The air was heavy with the smell of salty sea water, fresh fish, and not-so-fresh bait. Aebbe had made it to the little fishing village early in the day, as she did once a week and had done for the past month and a half. She had moved to a seaside cabin with Jaina about two months ago which was only a mile or so up the coast from this village. She was full glad she had found it, too - as Jaina had slipped further into her delirium, it had been increasingly difficult and dangerous to leave her for supplies.
Seaking of Jaina’s delirium - Aebbe had barely slept for the past fortnight, and she was frayed. She struggled to focus as she browsed the various supplies that the village offered - mostly fish, but also some tools and vegetables that they had previously traded for or found in their excursions. She was holding up a glass jar of… was that pig’s feet?... when she was bumped by a large roegadyn trying to move a crate. The bump sent her stumbling, and she dropped the jar, which shattered.
“Oi, watch yourself, clumsy wretch,” came the words from the roegadyn.
“But I wasn’t moving -” She started to say, completely reasonably.
“You’re going to pay for that jar, too,” said the shopkeep.
“It’s his fault that I dropped it at all!” She protested more loudly, as she felt her temper rising irrationally. It was a temper and anger she hadn’t felt in many years.
The roegadyn by now had stopped and turned to look at her, with a deep frown on his face, “Ain’t you that weird hermit bitch anyway? Lucky we let you come in here at all, given you don’t pay in gil.”
Aebbe whirled on him, looking wounded and angry, “But I… I’ve helped clear out the bandits, and your trade paths, and -”
“And you’re a weird fucking hermit what - “
For a moment the world seemed to stop as various disjointed thoughts crossed her mind. Jaina screaming for help from monsters that existed only in her head. Aebbe crying herself to sleep after Jaina had finally passed out. Moments of happiness when Jaina had clarity and calm, which came less and less often as the wards around her corrupted mind broke down and failed. Aebbe’s own demons stirring and rising, calling out to her, tempting her - it’d be so easy, cathartic, even - to draw that blade from its sheath -
She snapped. She hadn’t heard a word that the roegadyn or shopkeep had said for several minutes. She drew her blade and stepped forward, running the man through the chest without a second thought. The shopkeep gasped and opened his mouth to scream, but Aebbe withdrew her blade from the sputtering roegadyn and sliced the keep across his throat.
She stared, wild-eyed, as the man clutched at his throat and collapsed to the ground in a pool of his own blood. She’s still for a moment, processing what happened. Now she heard screaming, and she grinned wickedly and broke into a fit of giggles. That’s right! There was a whole village left! There were only a dozen and a half or so, but that was plenty.
“None of you know. None of you understand,” she said to herself, under her breath. She turned on the village that slowly closed in on her. Some shouted, and a pair ran toward her with blades drawn. With a practiced ease she threw her hands out and focused her aether, formed five aetherical swords. She then threw her hands forward, and the swords rushed forward silently through the air. Two buried themselves in the armed assailants, straight rough through their chests.
Disjointed laughter peeled from her as screams erupted anew. The other three swords were guided after a trio that fled. “You will suffer as I have!” She shouted. “To watch those you love struggle and die and you can’t do a godsdamned thing about it!”
She focused her aether again and summoned more blades. She could certainly use any of her other spells - fire, air, stone, thunder, or something unaspected. But the blades felt dangerous, and she could disable and kill without allowing them to die immediately. She walked calmly through the madness, sending a blade here and then there.
One after another they fell, and Aebbe couldn’t bring herself to stop. The screams faded one by one as those that fled were cut down. Those that tried to hide were found, and killed where they laid. Nothing worked - they begged, they pleaded, yet Aebbe continued. Soon enough she stood alone in the middle of the village, surrounded by blood and corpses.
Only then did her bloodlust fade. Only then did the world come back into focus. She surveyed the carnage for a few minutes and then turned back the way she came - and she ran. Out of the village, she ran all the way back to their little seaside cabin.
As the cabin came into view she spotted Jaina on its rickety porch, curled up on the bench with a cup of what Aebbe assumed to be coffee or tea. She stopped running and started jogging, then started walking, and then stopped at the base of the porch stairs. Jaina was smiling, the miqo’te’s tail flicking and her ears perked. She was clear-eyed, and Aebbe’s heart fluttered and then broke.
When the hyur didn’t come up the stairs, Jaina’s smile faded and it turned to a frown. She set her drink down on the bench and stood up, making her own way down the stairs to approach Aebbe, “What is it, dove?” She asked gently, in a voice that was a little hoarse, but focused.
“Nothing,” she responded coldly, fearfully, as she tried to move past her mate.
“You’ve got blood on you,” Jaina said, as she caught Aebbe by the arm in a weak grip.
“Not mine.” Was the response, though she didn’t try to pull away.
“Aebbe…”
Aebbe met that crimson gaze, so clear and full of light today, and she couldn't keep her composure. Her bottom lip trembled, and tears welled up in her eyes, “I killed them. All of them. T- the village that I was trading with. I don’t even know why I did - I just - I - I snapped - and -”
She is silenced when Jaina pulls her into a warm embrace that she didn’t deserve, and Aebbe burst into tears. Her knees gave out and she slumped down to the ground, while Jaina followed her. The miqo’te said nothing, just held her in silence while Aebbe sobbed. This was not her first killing spree - not her first in cold blood, either - that Jaina knew of.
“I’m not a monster,” Aebbe whispered fiercely, as she clung to her mate. “I’m not, I’m not, I’m NOT!” She near-shouted the last word as she shook in the miqo’te’s arms. But then, the cadence changed, and she sounded more afraid than before.
“I never wanted to be. I never wanted this. I never chose to bear this burden. I’m not a monster - I didn’t want to be!” She clung to the front of Jaina’s shirt, and in the moment it was difficult to tell who she was arguing with. “They did this. They made me like this. This is THEIR FAULT!” Another near shout, though this one caused Jaina to recoil, and Aebbe to refocus on her.
The hyur’s eyes were wide and wild again, and she swallowed hard. “I don’t want to be a monster, I don’t, I don’t,” she said quietly, practically whispered the words through her tears.
Jaina reached up and cupped Aebbe’s cheeks in her hands. She smiled shakily at her mate, with tears in her own eyes, before she leaned forward and planted a kiss to her forehead, and then to her lips. There was a brief moment of silence, followed by dark humor that was a little too honest, “You and me both, liebe. Match made in hell, hmm?”
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Mahji was alone. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The various animals that lived in their home were there. But there was no Lefay, as she was out working at one of her clinics. There was no Saheena or Toya, though he knew not where they were. He, meanwhile, had decided to take one more day of rest after the ritual two nights past. Lefay had mended his arm, where she had literally sliced his Coeurl tattoo off of him, but it was still sensitive and he didn’t dare test it.
He was in a spot where he rarely visited in the home - the little shrine to Azeyma. He passed through the room often, but never lingered. He never felt pious enough. He never felt faithful enough. He still harbored anger at the deity he had long thought abandoned him. But this morning, he was kneeling before the shrine, sitting back on his heels. His tail was curled around him, laying flat to the floor.
He found himself with nothing to say to Her for a long while. His mind was focused instead on the ritual prior. The fire that licked the Coeurl’s skull, then the ice. The angry frustration he felt, when Lefay told him to shatter it - not with her, but with who he had been, and what had been done to him. The satisfying crunch when that skull shattered.
The death of C’mahji. The birth of W’mahji. Symbolic though it was, he felt different. A great burden had suddenly been lessened. A fear had been quelled. The moment with Saheena, when Lefay sliced each of their palms and held their hands together. Then, the slicing off of his tattoo. The memory made his stomach turn - the sizzling of his skin, the smell of it, the sight of it.
He shivers, and sucks in a deep breath through his nose.
“Scores ain’t settled,” he finally says to the empty room, “An’ th’ faith ain’t restored. I were stripped down t’ nothing, an’ never had a prayer answered afore I met Lefay,” he pauses, surprised by his own anger. He takes another deep breath.
“But since I have, y’been there again. Th’ wounds will heal as th’ memories o’ a Coeurl fade, an’ a Wolf takes its place, aye?” Another pause, and the tip of his tail flicks. He can’t bring himself to thank Her, sour as he still is, but he can bring himself to bow his head and close his eyes for a moment or two more of silence before he stands to be about his day.
Please excuse any typos or weird changes in tense below. I was motivated to write, not to edit.
----------
C’mahji was loathe to call what he’d left behind as ‘home,’ but compared to the bustling city he now stood paralyzed in, it was close. He had left his tribe in the middle of the night a fortnight ago and had finally found Limsa Lominsa.
He was now in the middle of Hawkers Alley, clutching his bag of gear to his chest, with his tail curled pitifully around his leg and his ears plastered to his head. The sights, the sounds, the smells - they were all overwhelming, and the jungle cat knew not what to do with them. He’d come here to restock before trying to find a way on to Thanalan, as far from his tribe as he could, and he was having serious second thoughts.
“Oi, mate,” someone finally called out to him sympathetically. He was a towering roegadyn - but weren't they all? - and he motioned for C’mahji to approach. The skittish Seeker did just that, eyes darting around and ears swiveling at a loud bang here, a sharp laugh there. When he’s in front of the stall.
“Y’look out o’ place, son,” the roegadyn said, scratching at his jaw. C’mahji was dressed in his hunting leathers and all his associated trinkets and jewelry, “Tribal runaway, ‘en?”
The Seeker hesitated, and then stood up a little straighter, “Ain’t running. Travelin’. Seeking m’own way out in th’ world!”
The shopkeep grunted in response, “Whatever y’want t’ call it, y’ain’t been ‘round here afore, ‘ave ye? Y’don’t need t’ answer, th’ look on y’face says it all. C’mon.”
The man lumbered out from behind the stall and grasped C’mahji by the shoulder with one massive hand, leading him further down the alleyway, parting the crowd easily by his sheer size, “What’re ye after, ‘en? Y’staying here?”
C’mahji followed the man with little say in the matter. His eyes continued to dart from one odd sight to another, and he was still jumpy. “Some supplies, an’ a ticket t’ Thanalan. Maybe a place t’ stay for a night. I’ve got some hides an’ furs what t’ trade with, an’ some meat as well.”
“Y’got gil?”
The Seeker tore his eyes away from the crowds around him, which were dwindling as the man led him further down the alleyway. Soon, they take a corner down another side alley, even less populated.
“What now?”
“Y’ain’t got - shite, what kind o’ backwater tribe were y’part o’?” The man asked, finally releasing C’mahji’s shoulder as he continued to lumber along, “Well, y’can probably sell th’ shite y’want t’ barter with an’ fetch a pretty price for it, an’ then use that gil t’ get what you need.”
C’mahji looked flummoxed, and the roegadyn just chuckled. “Ain’t got t’ worry ‘bout it, mate. Just making small talk ‘til we got some place out o’ sight, aye?” He brought his finger and thumb up to his mouth and then whistled sharply. Apparently from nowhere, another three people appeared - two hyur men and a miqo’te woman. The fur on C’mahji’s tail stands on end.
“Look, ain’t nothing personal, aye? But y’tribal types are easy pickin’s, ‘specially you ignorant an’ trusting ones. Y’going t’ make us a profit an’ so will th’ furs an’ -”
C’mahji wasn’t going to allow the man to continue to explain his master plan. He knew it would end with himself dead or worse. He slung his bag onto his back while the man spoke and drew his hunting knife from his boot. He drove the blade deep into the roegadyn’s belly, which interrupted the speech and cause him to stumble back, wounded but not dead.
“Let me leave,” C’mahji said, his growled words broken by a slight waver to his voice, “I’ll cut all o’ you down an’ if I don’t I promise y’going t’ end up with more scars’n me afore y’catch me.”
There’s a moment where no one moves and the alleyway feels stale with dead air, but then there’s a rush of movement. The smaller of the hyur men charged him, but his partner in crime hesitated and stayed put. Mahji draw his blade back only to stumble forward as the miqo’te jumped onto his back.
Luckily, she was much smaller than he. He maintained his balance and threw his arms out to wrap around the hyur, who tackled them all to the ground. C’mahji is not above fighting dirty and bites down on whatever he can get hold of until he tastes blood, causing the hyur to shriek and pull away, clutching at the spot where the top of his ear used to be.
The miqo’te on his back had her legs wrapped around his waist, and her arm around his throat in a chokehold. He felt and saw the edges of his vision going black, but he wasn’t giving up. He reached behind him with his free hand and found her tail. He yanked - and then sliced with the knife that he still held in his other hand.
The sound she made was one that would stick with him forever, and she would live with a bobbed tail forever - but she let him go. C’mahji scrambled to his feet, bruised around the throat and midsection and covered in blood that was not his own. He held the sliced tail in one hand, and finally spat out the piece of ear he’d managed to steal.
The last hyur stared at him with wide eyes and then started to back away, “Fuck this shite, boss! Fuck ‘im. He’s fucking feral s’what he is!” He turned and sprinted down the alleyway. C’mahji turned to the roegadyn, who is still standing against the wall with his hand over his belly.
“Well, go on an’ get, ‘en,” the man said, with a dark chuckle, “Won’t have trouble from me or mine again. Sell y’shite an’ get t’ the airship docks an’ get th’ hells out o’ here. M’intentions weren’t pure but th’ advice were still good.”
C”mahji hesitated a moment, before he turned and sprinted back down the alleyway, dropping the tail he still held as he went.
For five years, Aebbe had trained and fought at the behest of her masters. She had yet to have an actual match, but she was prepared for them now. She was old enough. She understood how the system worked - the scars on her back, from the whippings she took when she hadn’t understood, reminded her.
She entered the ring with a steady and confident gait, wearing a simple steel breastplate, subligar, and boots. The armor bared more than it covered, and was made to fit her maturing form precisely. Showing her off was part of the show, after all.
Her opponent was a veteran, a man who knew no other life; he had been in this little gladiatorial slave ring for decades, and was now in his early forties. He was as fit as ever, dressed as sparingly as she. They both carried sword and shield.
Aebbe glared at him heatedly during the introductions that were called by the crier. She had fended him off one a number of occasions, most recently a week ago when he had snuck into her bedroom. She’d taken his finger for that offense, though it had not been reported to any of the taskmasters. That would only have made things worse for them both.
She didn’t even know the man’s name. She hadn’t made a habit of learning names. Learning someone’s name meant you got close to them, and that would get you killed in this place. The introductions ended, and the fight began. It was a fight to the first who yielded or was incapacitated - no kills allowed.
She knew, though, that sometimes certain circumstances arose that it was inevitable.
The fight began swiftly, when the giant of a man lumbered at her and swung his shield arm at her wildly, hoping to send her flying. She leaped to the side, stabbed him lightly in the hip. Enough to hurt, to draw blood. Enough to gimp him. He limped to a stop and turned, glared at her.
Then he charged her again, more controlled. He thrust his blade forward and she knocked it away with her shield, which left him open. She thrust her blade forward again - once again, let the blade bite into the man’s belly but not deep enough.
He roared at her and took a few steps back, now bleeding from two shallow but painful founds. She just smiled coldly back but her eyes sparkled with excitement.
“I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” she said to him, in a quiet, sing-song voice.
They exchanged a flurry of blows. Aebbe one most of the engagements. A cut to his thigh there. A nick to his shoulder there. She absorbed a few minor hits, but none drew blood. Finally, she baited him into a grievous mistake. He over extended and planted his foot too far out in front of him.
She sidestepped and slammed her heel into his lower leg, midway between ankle and knee. She heard and felt the satisfying snap of bone, and the man stumbled and fell.
“Do you yield?!” She shouted, for the crowd - and the criers, the taskmasters - to hear.
He shook his head, and she kicked him hard in the broken leg, drawing a roar out of the downed man… but still no surrender. He crawled and tried to get back up onto his good leg, but she followed and ruthlessly harried him. She kicked him in the ribs as hard as she could. She stabbed him again, in his uninjured shoulder. But she knew he was prideful, and stupid.
Occasionally, he would take a while swipe at her with his blade or his shield - which she never knocked away from him - but he always missed. The crowd had long fell silent, as the sport had worn off. Technically, neither had yielded, and neither was truly incapacitated.
She waited for him to try to stab her again, and then sliced down sharply with her blade and took his hand clean off, which resulted in a pained scream, “Do. You. Yield?!”
He glared at her, but did not. She raised her blade, leveled it over his throat.
“No - wait - the match is -” She heard the crier’s voice, but it was too late. She slammed the blade down into the man’s throat. If he would not yield, then he would die. She would be punished, she knew; but not severely. The crowd had heard her. The taskmasters had heard her.
He would not yield.
