#makeup prompt

If the last few years have taught any of us anything... it is that a 'god' can be anything. The 'beastmen' have called on any number of thoughts and ideas and given birth to gods of their own making.

Does that make it any less of a god, because it demands aether, or crystals? Don't all gods demand sacrifice, or offerings?

It leads one down dark, and twisting thoughts... does that mean that anyone has the potential to become a god?

By merely thinking, and wishing, we make it so?

Again, and again, I circle the parables of the Jackal. I think of the kinds of people we were raised to believe it guided, protected, and ushered safely to the afterlife in death - my kind of people.

Our kind of people.

Does it care about us - did it ever, or was the lesson all along that the pack is stronger simply because it meant higher chances of survival? Was the Jackal ever real? Or was it a 'false' god like the beastmen's? Or was it always mere stories to teach our people about the harsh realities of life through a lens that any might understand?

If I am the last of my tribe - my branch of it, at least - if I have the power to manifest the Jackal as I see it, within me... then what is to say that I am not a step away from godhood?

The thought has sat there - watching me - from the corners of my mind for too long, now. I have to address it.

What makes a god, if not power and faith?

<"He was just doing his job,"> came that same dark voice. His best friend. Always the voice of fucking reason. ALWAYS a reasonable man. It pissed Khartsakhan off as much as it did soothe him. He knew he could always rely on Sukh to share his sensible thoughts and poke a hole in ... most of the things he had to say. He was being the Devil's Advocate. Because, when it came to her, everything he had to say was emotional. Emotions were imperfect. Hot. Unpredictable.

He knew better than that. Khartsakhan spent most of his life knowing better than to lean so heavily on his emotions. He'd practiced and lived by removing himself from them. There was work to be done. Always.

But that fucker hit her. Put her down like she was a misbehaving dog in the middle of the fucking street. Of course he couldn't just let that go, job or not.

<"I don't give a shit, Sukh. He hit her. He's going to tell me who ordered the hit, and then he's going to die."> His tone was vicious and venomous as the twisted expression on his face. He had a burning cigarette between index finger and thumb but he didn't smoke it. Instead, Khartsakhan watched the smoke curl away from that dimly glowing ember.

<"I think you see value in leaving him alive, Khartsakhan. I know you do. Whatever technique it is he used, he might be able to teach you. More than that -- he could help you deal with the person that has it out for Rah'sanavi. Surely you see the benefit here."> Sukh was patient and kind, as always. His voice held no judgement, nor did his naturally intimidating face or body.

Khartsakhan chewed on that for a long... long moment. It looked, more than anything, like he'd shut down. It seemed like he was resigning himself to a night of silence before he threw himself into a bloody tournament that would likely see him dead. But, eventually, he sucked in a slow breath and spoke again. Calmer.

<"I'll ask for a fight with him. That'll be my reward for winning the tournament. She'll be pissed if she finds out... But, I'll give him the chance to give me what I want. I'll beat the shit out of him and bargain his life for his help.">

Sukh shook his head and leaned back, pouring a cup of tea between them; spiced and earthy and slightly sweet. <"Sounds a little reckless, Khartsakhan. But -- you have my confidence, anyway.">

<"Where is Sukhbataar,"> she asked, her voice harsh and full of judgement. Sharply directed at his youngest brother, she poked a deep plum finger at his chest, leaning over her son with the fire of Azim in her eyes.

She had to have Azim's fire -- their father had died several cycles ago, even when Sukhbataar was just a boy. Someone, that wasn't the Ugdan, had to draw the lines and keep her four boys within them... And that was going to be her, day in and day out.

The young boy, maybe six or seven summers old, shrank his pitch colored eyes wide. <"I don't know, mama. I think I heard he did not show up for training today, mama. Ugdan Bairon is furious...">

She withdrew her finger and let out a dissatisfied 'tch.' They all knew what that sound was. If the bubbling in a kettle promised that sharp whistle, her 'tch' promised quiet fury that was far more scary than her shout.

Bells later, after the sun had already sank below the horizon and Nhaama rose high overhead, after his brothers had all been fed and put to bed, Sukhbataar snuck through the Khaa with a few new scrapes and bruises and exhaustion in his eyes. Near silent, he'd not hit his growth spurt enough to have to duck under the entrance to the yurt, he crept inside only to be stopped dead in his tracks.

His mother sat by the hearth with her face only barely illuminated by a low burning fire, scowling as she brought the brim of her cup to her lips for a sip. Her dark eyes didn't even lift to look at him.

<"I'm sorry, mama. I was just --">

<"You've disappointed me,"> she said, cutting him off. He knew better than to speak, even if his mouth opened to protest. He wanted to explain. To defend himself, but it would only make things worse.

<"Shirking your responsibilities? Wasting the Ugdan's time? You have a condition, child. A gift. An opportunity to be better and serve the Dotharl, and this is what you do with it? Waste time. I am ashamed of you, that I had to speak with the Ugdan and apologize for your absence. Let it happen again and I will be certain you do not survive the experience, Sukhbataar."> Her tone was even and uncompromising and still she did not look at him.