for shóga, ’ I’m okay. i’m alright. this is all in my mind. ’ (bri is probably muttering this to herself in disbelief...)
the ghâsh-hai keep to themselves— SAFETY AND SECURITY ARE FOUND AMONGST THEIR OWN, never with tark, never with other uruk. a tradition broken with only in times of necessity, or the journey of becoming. a journey that shóga has subjected herself to, now that she may be makatok… given she proves herself successful. being matron means she will be heard && though she has longed for this journey out of love for her children, the sands of their home grow more and more treacherous. something is stirring, and the horse-people grow more and more bold, claiming territory and starting wars. for the first time the many clans appear to move as one more often, and shóga worries for her people && the underlying knowledge of what this must mean.
her journey takes her west, to steppes with trees and grass— where fat, glittering streams bleed green into an unforgiving landscape. tark gather there in large tribes, and she must fight the uneasiness this brings her more than the elements. but lo! at the very least her journey is not entirely lonely, for her youngest child must accompany her. the little fang is not old enough yet to stand on her own— she needs her mother && shóga would not leave her behind. a considerable risk, but their lives have never been easy, nor the decisions that must be felled. the little bundle is safely tucked to her back, cradled in a woven basket that conceals her daughter from view && the sun.
dark braids whip about her face as she turns her nose to the wind, carrying faint notes of salt upon moisture. the stars have guided shóga westwards with surety, though she cannot remember any story of her peoples ever having taken place here. the lay of the land is unfamiliar to the she-uruk. it's cliffs and mountainsides, vegetation and animals. && nothing is quite as she hoped, for settlements have grown more frequent, some larger than any she has ever seen before. traveling alone is risky, but it is something that can be done. a whole clan though?
huffing under her breath, reflective eyes flick up the gentle slope by which she stands, pointed ears twitching as she perceives the faint sound of steps, voices. smells it, too: tark. not too many, only a few horses. nothing in their scent means danger, screams warriors. perhaps they must trade words— perhaps the days of avoidance and war must come to an end. shóga knows not how her people will endure on their own, especially when they hardly know the threat stacked up against them.
thus she is come stood before a small woman, trembling like a dry leaf caught in a gale. both warriors that have accompanied her lay unconscious upon the packed earth, the merchant hiding by his wares. lowering her spear slowly, shóga takes in the tark's fear with a huff, barely able to make out her frantic muttering. she speaks some common, though finer nuances are lost to her.
‘ even a panicked gazelle knows to run. you are no worthy quarry. are you not their leader? must you not show them strength? ’ shóga is a tall woman, her back broad and muscled. indigo lays in vibrant contrast upon her skin, applied in a thick paste— it's purpose clearly more than decorative. though her clothes are richly adorned, as is her hair. no steel is to be found on her body, a vast difference to the orc tribes terrorizing most of the west. neither is there an ounce of gleeful cruelty to be found in her eyes or expression. merely a pensive expectancy, a hesitation. never fear, though a bracing for the inevitable.
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