#sankru

30 days of mood boards: 24/30 

”Yu gonplei ste odon.”

Far sooner than she would have liked, she found herself outside Nix’s hut again. She wanted to check on Vada too, but at least she had Mida who the brunette doubted had left her side since they got here. Tribeca half expected their blacksmith to still be unconscious when she finally walked into the hut due to nothing more than impulse, so when that wasn’t the case she didn’t quite know how to react. In the end she seemed to settle for what was most likely the worst possible decision, walking up to the woman without so much as a word and ensuring she bypassed her bad hand completely as she hugged her. “Don’t ever do that again.” She grumbled into her shoulder, not even thinking about whether Nix wanted her personal space by this point.   

Defining Moments:

Born to a line of Sankru destined for simple lives—the kind of people who supported from the sidelines rather than the battlefront—Bronx always felt himself destined for something more. His grandmother, a tattooer, was a keen storyteller. From the day he was disciplined enough to sit still, before darting off to find the next adventure, she filled his mind with tales of the great Sankru warriors; how his mother Ankee had lost her arm in battle; and the bravery of his clan. Soon he began to idolize her for her wisdom. When his grandmother passed away—her body burnt before his eyes to set her spirit free, as was Sankru tradition—it felt as if a piece of him had died with her. Yet even after his grandmother’s death, her stories lived in within Bronx as a legacy; it was this above all that made him strive to be a warrior. 

In battle, he would write his own stories, and he knew that wherever her spirit was in the world, should she one day see her grandson, she would be proud. At the tender age of seven, Bronx found his calling in warriorhood when he first laid hands on a weapon. He found his heart drawn to the bow. The arrow was not a force of destruction; it was an extension of his soul. The first time he brought home a desert jackrabbit—toothy grin, its ears clutched between his chubby fingers—his mother let out a scream. Shortly after, she had skinned and roasted it, and it became a mealtime favourite of their family. Bronx found that with practice, he could shoot a rabbit straight through the eye; he never missed. 

Releasing an arrow was like releasing a part of himself, off to be free in the vast, open wilderness—and from that very first shot, Bronx knew then that his destiny as a warrior rather than a hunter was sealed by the stars. Kismet arose from the courage of Vada. At a mere nineteen, Bronx became the prodigal son. His choosing as a Seken became his coronation; an opportunity at last to prove his worth as a warrior and bring honour to the Sankru. To impress his mentor, Bronx would endure sweat, blood, tears, and face it all with the unfaltering beam of a youthful heart unburdened by the losses of war. Were it possible, the benevolent child would move the sun and the stars to earn the respect of the Heda and prove his unrelenting courage.