They ate with stories sung out to them, and when the fire laid low and the food had been devoured, they sang together. The adults made spirits from the few fruits they could gather up or traded for, they drank while children played games. He was one of those children, running about to chase his friends - they made calls at each other, pretending to be the birds their voices had descended from. He only stopped and let his friends leave him behind when he found a patch of flowers, sitting down in them to make a small crown of chickweed and ramies, and a second one, which was a little larger. When he was done, he ran back to the camp.

“Emee! Look what I made~!” He waved the larger crown from afar before he moved in closer to place it upon her head. She looked upon the flowers that made up his own, which he displayed with an exaggerated flourish.

“Chickweed and rhea! Now I know your love will never fade~” Her voice matched his own, the happiness in its song. Before bed, it was practice time, to make certain his voice stayed as beautiful as it sounded now. Then it was time for him to turn in, and after a long day and night, he flopped down and slept peacefully.

Though he woke up later in the night, near the early morning - he could tell because the fog made the grass moist and the tents humid - when his grandmother never returned inside as well. They usually slept by each other, and he would know safety next to her. But there was no safety holding him when he awoke, and so he grabbed his bow and quiver and tentatively stepped out of the tent - as quiet as he could. There was no one there. “Emee?” No answer, and so he went to check on the rest of his family. “Ooel?” He opened the flap of the adjacent tent, seeing his cousin stirring, poking his head up from under the fur blanket. “Mm?” “Have you seen Emee?” “Mm-mm.” He covered himself back up, only to sit upright and jump to his feet - along with his siblings and parents at the sound of a shriek. Not one that most would expect from a common vocal range, no, this one likened to that of the yol - which his tribe of Qalli used to signal an attack.

He could see the dark green banner over the white of the bare light of daybreak through the mist. Kokhjin readied his bow while his family gathered up their weapons.

He never knew battle happened so fast and so slow at the same time. He let loose arrows with shrieks as well, a tactic used to startle their enemies prone; he dug knives into flesh with bared teeth, yanked arrows from corpses to use again. He was no match for the adults of their opponents, but he helped in what ways he could. He met his match against a boy of his own age, spear caught in the string of his bow; Kokhjin kicked him in the chest, trying to knock him back, only for the boy to bring him down with him. They were left to grapple on the ground - and not even the deafening silence that fell after the battle was over would stop him from tearing into him like an animal, he created his own noises- his own song- to bring down this enemy, and he was just about to bring a knife he had grabbed to the boy’s throat, he was stopped. A man had grabbed his wrist and pulled him upwards - giving him a good look around at the wreckage.

His whole family…

He saw that they had died there, all of them. Massacred in battle with little force, so easily did they fall. What did they do to deserve this? Why did they attack them? When he saw a few gathering up what resources they had, he snarled - tears threatening to fall. They murdered them over supplies?! They could have asked! His family was so friendly, so generous! They would’ve provided!

He kicked about wildly, trying to attack the man that held firm to his arm. “I like this one.” The boy he had almost managed to kill spoke up. “Can we keep him?” What was he? A pet? He spit curses and calls, trying to break free again. “Little too energetic - but I think we can break him. You have to do it, though. I’d rather see him dead.”

Toss and catch, spin, step forward, toss and catch. Step back, spin, down and up, up and down. 

It was… boring. He had done this routine so many times, he dreams of it now. It never changed, and that was what drew them to this point. “Kokhjin! Remember what I said about your steps - if you mess it all up, everyone would notice!” Steps this, steps that. When he joined, he thought it to be for his singing not his dancing. Silence was unbecoming of him, but his annoyance ran that deep, that the songs in his head had to remain behind the closed doors of his lips. “Back, left, forward- no, no, no!” The troupe leader was becoming increasingly more frustrated with him. There was no pleasing this woman, was there? Dancing wasn’t his forte, it was a bonus, not the star. He stopped for a moment, throwing the sheer scarf attached to his wrists over his shoulders, letting out a sigh as his hands ran through his golden hair. 

He open his mouth-

“I swear, if you sing again…” His mouth closed, the tension in his jaw could be seen visibly. Kokhjin was not angered easily, but this “troupe” was pulling his strings too much. The tourists that visited Kugane could watch in anticipation at how bad this blow up was going to be. The dancing, the acting? No, they wanted to see the arguing - a dramatic play being unwound in front of them.

He did not sing, but rather spoke, much to his own uncomfortable dismay. “I don’t think you understand what you were looking for when you asked me to join.” “I knew exactly what I wanted - a dancer! You were a star in Reunion, what are you even doing now? You’re clumsy, atrocious--” “They’re your steps! What am I supposed to do! I’m a singer, not a dancer! Perhaps you need to learn more about our culture before you assume that *dancing* is what I am meant to do!” “Kokhjin, your dancing was beautiful before--” “Don’t give me that!” His voice deepened, hung and vibrated in his throat, near impossible to understand without strain. He leaned back, the darkness in his voice sailing away with an exhale. “...No, I can’t do this anymore. You stifle my songs, you stifle my dance. I love your troupe dearly, but you- *you* are the one I have a problem with. I will waste no time in thinking about this matter.”

“Kokhjin--” “Hm. I think I will go overseas, and you can remain here - stuck - with barely the funds to keep calling yourselves a ‘troupe’. I’ll take what I have and cut my losses.” He lifted a hand, then offered a flourishing bow and turned away. “Very well. I hope you find the winds at your back. We’ll still be here.”

Bright like the sky, moves like clouds, shining like the sun - gentle as the wind.

This was the philosophy of Kokhjin’s songs and dance, graceful and serene. He’d captivate his audience with a flourish to the notes that came from his mouth. Oh, my moon, who’s flames tore my family from my arms - Oh, my sun, what peace you could not bring, daylight showed me my horrors, my nightmares, my scars.

His songs were sad, yet the smile on his face as he sang them they brought comfort to his wounds. Why can’t I bleed with you; forever I will be thrown to the wolves, and they shall feed on all our dreams. There was a bow at the end, to the applause he received. Some left, some stayed for another show. The only musical accompaniment were the taps of his feet against the stone ground and the humming that vibrated in his throat. There was that beaming smile again, and he set a beat to which his crowd could clap to. The perfect sounds for a dance in the streets of Limsa Lominsa. Legend's faded storyline; Tried to warn us all; Oh, they called her: "Loreley; Careful or you'll fall" Oh, the stories we were told; Quite a vision to behold; Mysteries of the seas; In her eyes of gold...

The songs of sirens were pulled from his voice, drawing them in much like one. His feet followed along, silk ribbons flowing through the air as he spun. His golden hair followed; the chips and chirps of the small bells which hung from the ankles of his shoes - ding, ding! The smallest of tambourines. Laying on the silver stone; Such a lonely sight; Barnacles become a throne; My poor Loreley And the winds would cry; And many men would die; And all the waves would bow down; To the Loreley...