Dotharl /doθarl/ is a Xaela term. This is a Dotharl-native shortening of a phrase, dota-hārl, roughly "those who do not fear death", involving the Xaela term /hārl/ relating to death. This is an exonym, which was loaned by the Dotharli for self-reference, acquiring the unique phoneme θ to the Dotharli dialect from an alternate version of the usual /th/ -> /s/ sandhi pattern.
An interesting Aldenardic cognate is Issom-Har, "Palace of the Dead" in Padjali.
(a)har (Amalj'aan: "perseverance", semantic unit 2, (a)lh 4) is not related (among other things due to Amalj'aan being a Turalic language that did not loan much from Eorzean ones), and neither is Thal, but West Ilsabardic garle (and similar forms), referring to a person with the inability to manipulate aether interestingly is, through the (somewhat inaccurate and metaphorical) idea of being aetherically 'dead'.
"dead" is on the Augurelt list of words that are least likely to be replaced across languages; the semantic shift in Ilsabardic is an exception, and the Padjali and Xaela terms convergently developed in a similar way (the original Allagan term was not *har-).
The Adventures of an Inconvenient Au Ra: Adventurer
When people asked Keshet why he'd taken up adventuring, he didn't know what to tell them. Money, fame, glory, those were the usual pursuits people assigned to him if he just let them draw their own conclusions, and he saw no reason to correct them. Perhaps, if pressed, he might have said he was looking for ever stronger things to fight - that much at least wouldn't have been a lie. But if he were to tell the truth, the whole truth...
Keshet never wanted to be an adventurer. Growing up, he'd heard tales of others who'd suffered from great wanderlust and who dreamed of travelling the world and helping others. He couldn't understand that. He loved his life, and he loved his tribe. He had everything he could ever need right here, in Nhaama's Retreat. Why would anyone ever want to leave? He certainly hadn't.
He hadn't had a choice.
The sky had crackled like fire that day as voidsent rained down upon the Steppe, the portal in the air like a great gaping maw to mock those who would stand against them. Keshet, curled beneath it with levin coursing through his veins in place of blood, his scales crackling with the ice that crept over the seams in his flesh despite the way his insides seemed to boil. The scream that tore itself from his throat had left him hoarse but still he could not reign it in, fingers scrabbling uselessly against his own ribs as he sought something, anything that might set free the roiling power that poured through him. The hands that reached for him went unfelt, Sadu's colorful cursing falling on deaf ears as she lurched away from him, the unspent energy arcing from his body to hers when she drew near. Voices lifted in panic and pain, inconsequential in the moment but that would haunt his nightmares for years to come. The sounds of his comrades launching themselves into battle rang like falsities in Keshet's ears, the screeches of voidsent like salt in open wounds a cacophonous counterpoint. Darkness swam at the edges of his vision, the world seeming to tilt on its axis as his grasp on reality wavered, and then, blissfully, nothing.
When he awoke, tucked comfortably into his own bed, he could almost believe it had been nothing but a terrible dream. He might have even convinced himself of it too if not for the fresh burn marks swirling across his skin like the desert sands and the blood caked under his fingernails. There was no watchman posted at his bedside, but his fellows were skittish when he stepped outside his tent. Oh they tried not to show it - no Dotharl worthy of the name would show such obvious fear, especially not of one of their own - but it was obvious enough in the darting of their eyes and the twitch of their fingers towards their weapons.
Sadu was waiting for him when he ducked into her tent, her staff placed noticeably far away in an open show of trust. Keshet stopped before her, unsure what to say. His tail twitched, his fingers itching to fidget with themselves, but he denied the nervous gesture, squaring his shoulders when he felt then start to stoop. What was he even supposed to say in a situation like this? Sorry? Empty platitudes would not undo the damage he had wrought and the chaos he had sown.
Sadu spared him having to figure it out. "Feeling alright now?" she asked. There was no edge of excessive compassion or gentleness to her voice, and for that Keshet was grateful. She was the same old Sadu she had been yesterday, brusque and fiery and no-nonsense.
"Yes. Thank you for... Just, thanks." He lost the battle with his nervous energy, eyes on his feet as he toed at the ground.
"Keshet, look. I'm not going to pretend that nothing happened yesterday, because that wouldn't help anyone. You lost control. It happens. Learn from it and get over it."
"I... I think I should leave. For a while. Until I can be sure I won't hurt anyone else."
He could feel the weight of Sadu's frown on him without even looking up. "You belong here, Keshet. With your kin. Where would you even go?"
"I don't know. Hingashi, maybe. I'll travel around and master the power within me so that what happened yesterday never happens again." He met Sadu's eyes, her harsh glare seeming to bore down into his scorched soul. "People got hurt because I can't control this damned magic. People I care about. If I can't wield it without hurting my friends, than what good is it?"
"You'll learn," was her curt reply. "You always do."
"And how many of our kin will I have to immolate before I do? How many Dotharl will fall to the claws of voidsent summoned by my own damned power before I can get a hold of it? We can't afford to take those kinds of losses, especially not from within our own tribe!" And I couldn't handle it either. He took a steadying breath, and when he spoke again, it was calmer, more rational. "Besides, you know as well as I do that the other tribes leaders won't leave us in peace so long as I'm around, not after yesterday."
"Fuck what the other tribes think. If they come for us, we'll beat them back. Don't tell me you're backing down from a fight?"
"Of course not," he protested, some of his usual passion returning to his voice. "But you know as well as I do that if the other tribes band together against us, we'll be wiped out. We can't be reborn if there's no tribe left to be born into!"
Sadu crossed her arms but conceded his point, just this once. "They'll forget. They always do."
"They'll forget a lot quicker if I'm not around to remind them."
A long pause as she looked him up and down, and then: "Stay until the next full moon. After that, if you still want to leave, I won't stop you. But your home is here. Never forget that you are a Dotharl. You belong here, with us. And once you've done whatever it is you feel you have to do, come back."
Three weeks later under the light of the full moon, Keshet set off from his home for parts unknown, armed with his staff and Nhaama's blessing, and a fervent hope that one day he would get to see his kin again.
The Daily Inconveniences of an Au Ra: Bloodhempen Chestwrap
The sharp sting of the needle puncturing his flesh as Keshet stitched up his wounds was so familiar as to be a comfort. The pain meant he was still alive to fight again tomorrow, and the ritual of tending to his own injuries after a fight helped shake away the last jitters of adrenaline; for all the merits and practicality of healing magic, it's soothing glow and instant relief just couldn't compare. The only thing missing was a stiff drink and the desert heat on his scales - but he'd settle for a flask of ale and the roaring flame of the campfire.
"You know, this doesn't really offer much in the way of protection," Thancred said, plucking at feathers of Keshet's discarded top, shucked so he could stitch a particularly wicked slice across his ribs.
"You wear a leather choker in place of a gorget," Keshet pointed out dryly, not bothering to look up from his task. "And be careful with that, I just fixed the beading last night and I'd rather not have to redo it again quite yet."
Thancred continued to turn the garment over in his hands, but he did at least seem to be handling it cautiously, and Keshet was sufficiently satisfied he wasn't going to bend any feathers that he refrained from protesting further. "You realize you would end up with fewer injuries if you wore something more protective, right?"
He was pretty sure it was a rhetorical question, but he answered anyway. "I am aware of that, yes."
Thancred frowned at him, at the scratches and old scars that covered his dark skin. "Then why...?"
"It is the garb of my people," Keshet explained simply. "We fear no strike against us; we laugh in the face of sword and sorcery both, and death holds no sway over the Dotharl. And so we proudly bear the marks of each battle fought and each victory hard-won." He tied of the thread of his stitches and severed it with his teeth before levelling a bellicose grin at his companion. "You shouldn't fear the enemy who enters the field well protected - you should fear the one who wears nothing to guard their flesh and still charges in to the slaughter." He let that comment linger in Thancred's mind for a moment, delighting in the vaguely horrified expression on his face before taking mercy on his concerned friend and adding, "It helps when you have scales to block the worst of the blows, too." He tapped the thick black plates on the back of his wrist, and Thancred had to admit that the scales there appeared unblemished despite the blade he'd watched Keshet block there not a half a bell earlier.
"It still seems like an unnecessary risk..."
Keshet lifted the top from Thancred's hands, fastening it into place before responding with a light shrug. "It has cultural significance too. The number of scars you bear is a point of pride among my people, and the more skin that you reveal, the more scars you can show off. The feathers come from the beast that we hunt during our coming of age ceremony - though they often have to be replaced." He ran his fingers over the plumes stitched into his outfit. "These I collected from my yol after I tamed him. The feathers you sport bear a great deal of significance to us: the mightier the beast they come from, the better."
He shrugged again. "It might seem impractical, but this garb is important to me. It's one of the last pieces of home I carry with me. It's no different than your collar or the twins' earrings."
Keshet trailed off, expression as casual as ever as he packed away his medical supplies, and Thancred tried to pretend he did not hear the wistfulness in his tone, the longing to return to a home that would not be the home he remembered, even if he could return to it. It was a feeling Thancred knew all too well, and he cleared his throat. "The skewers look to be just about done. Here." As far as attempts to change the subject went, it was a poor one, but Keshet seemed grateful. The two of them ate in contemplative silence, each reflecting on a past that had left them sentimental and scarred. Thancred's fingers strayed to his throat as he stared into the flames, dipping beneath the choker to brush against the tattooed skin below. Everyone wore their past in different ways. Maybe Keshet's impractical attire wasn't so irrational after all.
[11:00]Sig moved to scoop up the smaller man then, hefting him /right/ up into his arms, and bumping their foreheads together lightly. "You're cute, Ersikins." He told the smaller man, smirking down to him, before he turned, dumping him playfully onto the couch. "Say- … I was supposed to meet that lil' lizzer 'round here, Sohkatani. You didn't happen t'bump inta her on your way here?"
[11:01]Ersian Kisne huffed a laugh before he was dropped on the couch. He groaned, flopping back against the cushions and sighed. "Sohka?" he asked, frowning. "No, you know, I haven't seen her in a few days. That's weird."
[11:03]Sig nodded to this, frowning to himself in thought, a hand coming up to scratch at his cheek. "Yeah, that's weird as fuck." He mused, before he nodded to himself. "A'ight- I'm gonna go find Ganz, you let your sister know, aye? Let's work out what's up with the lil' cutie, yeah?"
[11:06]Ersian Kisne nods, trying to gather himself and collect his thoughts. "Yeah. Hm." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a linkpearl, tossing it to the Viera. "That's Takitaro's main line. Let me know if she's with Ganz, will you? I'll ask Ruu if she's seen her around."
[11:07]Sig caught the linkpearl with a nod, scooping it up and tucking it into a pouch hanging from the belt he wore. Moving over, he scooped up his coat then, swinging it over his shoulders and buckling it in tight. "I'll let you know." He assured, giving a nod. "She's been having trouble with those Chaghan fuckers, aye? Let's make sure the bean's alright. For her kid's sake if nothing else."
[11:09]Ersian Kisne nodded, the tension in his pants beginning to ease as a bit of worry crept in. "Check with her other mates, too. I think she has, uh… two more? Three? Can't be more than that."
Upon the vast plains of the Azim Steppe, a small footnote in the history of ever-again went unobserved by the world at large. A small gathering of three tribes commenced, the Dotharl, the Chaghan and, overlooking the affair to ensure that it did not turn from a diplomatic event into a hate-fueled battle, the Oronir.
Khaltmaa of the Dotharl lifted her head and closed her eyes, listening to the snap of the flags proudly flown, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face. They had been instructed by the Oronir to limit their delegation to ten, just as the Chaghan had been. Compliance with the order had been reluctant and untrusting; to say that the Dotharl did not get along well with either tribe was to vastly understate the political atmosphere of the day... but the Oronir were, at least for this turn, the rulers of the Steppe. If they were to double-cross either tribe in a peaceful assembly, all of the tribes of the Steppe would rise up against them.
Opening her eyes, she surveyed the field and the forces arrayed before them. The Oronir had brought fifty warriors, clad in bright yellow, some of whom remained on horseback, others relaxing on foot as they watched the proceedings. The Chaghan had brought their allotted ten, dressed in red and black, marks of war drawn in thick greasepaint upon their faces. They were not so calm as the Oronir, pacing and muttering among themselves, holding tightly to their weapons.
All but one. One man stood entirely still, one massive brute of a man, even for their people; one man who the whipping winds didn't seem to touch, who stood in the eye of the storm of tension around them and did not flinch. Terkhembaatar, of the Chaghan, stared Khaltmaa down with a terrible calmness, a sense of inevitability, as if he knew the count of her days.
Khaltmaa repressed a shudder and straightened her shoulders proudly, the small, elder Auri woman striding forth. She planted her feet in the dust of the plains and called forth in a strong voice untouched by the trembling she felt in her hands, hidden in her warkilt.
"Terkhembaatar of the Chaghan, I come here today to make a claim for reason, and for peace. You and your tribemates have pursued my daughter and her mates for the last three moons without cease, sending wave after wave of your brothers to fall before them. This all began because of your tribemate's actions! Your brother in blood chose to slay my son, Sohkatani's brother, in a shameful ambush. He was alone! He was no threat to your tribe or your brother. But your tribe took his head and sent it to me. Is this not a declaration of war? But the Dotharl abided. Sohkatani returned to the Steppes with her mates and slew this man that killed her brother, as was her right. Instead of letting it end there, you and yours have tried many times now to cut them down. End this foolishness."
Khaltmaa fell silent, her heart pounding in her chest. She had fought to be named envoy for these talks, arguing the no other had any more right than she, as it had been her son that had been slain and her daughter that the Chaghan sought to kill now. Standing here, her entire body shaking with rage, fists clenched at her sides, she wondered briefly if another should not have been named to speak. Control, she counselled herself. It was her fury that directed her words, the only emotion that the Chaghan even acknowledged, so far as she knew.
Terkhembaatar did not move for several moments, allowing the wind to carry the last of Khaltmaa's words away. Finally, he took one step towards the tiny, quivering Xaela who stared up at him with so much rage - and the Oronir watching rustled their weapons in warning. Ignoring the taut sound, he fixed his gaze upon her.
"You have much to say, Khaltmaa of the Dotharl, but little to offer. Your daughter owes my brothers a debt of blood. In her thirst for vengeance, she slew five, not one. Four lives are owed to the Chaghan. You ask us to end this. This is my offer to you. She has four mates. We will take the lives of these mates but spare your daughter and the infant."
Khaltmaa's heart sank. She hadn't approved of Sohkatani's choice in choosing not one, but multiple mates outside of the Dotharl. Upon meeting two of them, Altan of the Angura, and Ganzorig of the Avagnar, however, she had seen them for honorable warriors who returned her daughter's steadfast love. She'd been unaware of the third and fourth mates, but if she knew her daughter, knew that her heart had been given freely and completely.
The fact remained, however, that none of them were Dotharl. She could not extend Sohkatani's protection to them without officially declaring war between their two tribes. She had no doubt the crafty Chaghan knew this, damn the man. Loathing every word that left her lips, Khaltmaa spoke again, her voice heavy.
"Your terms are accepted by the Dotharl. We will not go to war with the Chaghan over the deaths of Sohkatani's mates, so long as she and the child live."
With that, Terkhembaatar simply nodded and turned away. Khaltmaa followed suit. There was nothing more to say. She had betrayed her daughter to save her life and she knew that Sohkatani would never forgive her, as long as she lived. But she would live, for the sake of her child.
A few days had passed since Sohka had attended the social gathering at Priarch and had reassured Silvaineaux that she would speak to Edarien about potentially securing Priarch's help with their rather one-sided war with the Chaghan. Being from one of the more hated tribes of the Steppe, she was sure that no other tribe would step forth to aid her, even if an alliance would be beneficial to both tribes - and, as she had expressed to the Baron, she had few friends to call on. Those she did have, she was reluctant to involve - they'd done nothing to incur the Chaghan's wrath and dragging them into the conflict would risk their life and limb.
Asking Priarch for aid was really her last resort. If they could bring a large enough show of force to the next wave of Chaghan that came for them, perhaps they could end the conflict for good.
So it was early one midweek morning that Sohka had seen Sai - her son - bundled up in bed with a snoring Altan and the tiny Xaela woman herself trudging the familiar paths back toward Thanalan. It was still too early to disturb Edarien, so she intended to go and have a bit of breakfast at the Quicksand and while away an hour or two, then head to the Mists where Priarch's headquarters were. Pre-occupied with her troubled thoughts, she barely paid any heed to her surroundings, eyes downcast on the path before her.
The first sign of trouble was the fallen tree.
A felled trunk and branches- One of the few which Thanalan even bore, and it had fallen- …
Or, been cut down, as an inspection of the harshly hewn stump would reveal.
The second, was the scent on the wind. Masculine and thick, it wafted past her nostrils- The aroma of a male in heat. The aroma of a man without control, without limitations, without anyone holding him back or restraining his choices. Heady, thick, laced with blood and earth and fresh-cut wood.
And the third- … The third was the voice.
“Early morning, out all alone, little Steppedaughter.” Came the rumbling intonation of the words from her side, where a quick whirl around would reveal the man.
He carried his axe across his lap- A twin-headed, chunky-bladed Labrys which he hefted up, before turning over to brace it against the ground.
And beyond that, he was big. It was hard to tell with him sitting down as he was- But he looked a good half a fulm taller than even the tallest of her mates, give or take an ilm.
Ebon-black scales glinting in the sun the Xaela moved to rise to his feet then, and- Oh, he was every bit as big as he looked. “The stories didn’t capture even half of how pretty you were- … Or half of how arrogant.” Came the breath from his lips then, as the man with his powerful jaw and forward-facing horns looked down to her, hefting his axe up, and over his shoulder. “They call you Sohkatani of the Dotharl. Don’t they? Born of Wildfire. Slayer of Chaghan.”
A tree down? She paused, fingers reaching out to touch the rough-hewn edges of it. Who would just cut a tree down across the middle of the path and leave it there? Unless...
... her head whipped up as she caught the scent in the air. Definitively masculine and certainly the source of the fallen tree. Novsh. It was a trap, one that she had distractedly walked right into.
Whirling around when she heard the voice from behind her, she narrowed her eyes suspiciously on the enormous, muscle-bound male Xaela. She took a small step back, but that was about as far as she could go, being as the trunk of the fallen tree now pressed to her backside.
Still, she was Dotharl - and Dotharl did not display fear. "I am the one of whom you speak. Sohkatani, Wildfire shaman of the Dotharl tribe, the Undying, most fearless tribe of the Steppe!" she declared boldly in Xaelic, ignoring his compliment... and following insult. "Slayer of the Chaghan, only because the Chaghan will not stop sending warriors to wet my blades."
With that, her two chakram dropped into her small hands and came up before her in a defensive gesture, clearly conveying that if he intended to attack her, she would not go easily.
The man was massive, a fact which only grew more and more apparent as he approached her. His head canting to the side, he cracked the vertebrae in his neck then. One by one in a slow, certain progression.
“Good.” He growled out, then. “Then I have not been led astray by my fool brothers.”
“Though, you’re wrong about one thing.” He uttered out then, as he leant in slowly. “Dotharl feel fear. I’ve seen it in their eyes as I crushed their ribs beneath my boot. Your people may not fear death- … But I have my ways. And with the Will of Karash? My kin know no such thing as fear. Only fury.”
His free hand shot up then, and he grabbed ahold of one of her Chakrams, his grip monstrously tight- Threatening to outright bend the metal as he pushed back, as if to force her right onto her ass, back against that tree trunk she was now backed up against.
And then, he ripped his arm back, aiming to pull that Chakram right out of her hand- If he hadn’t already crumpled it by way of his heavy grip. The man was a monster. Overbearing and overrunning her in a way which none of the other Chaghan had been- Like an oncoming earthquake, crumbling houses in his wake. “And you, little wildfire spark? You have done MUCH to earn my fury.”
"Do not come closer!" Sohka called sharply as he began to approach, but her warning went utterly unheeded, his coming seeming as inevitable as the dawn sun. Brothers? He confirmed her suspicions, then - he was Chaghan... which meant that she was certainly in danger. Where there was one, there were a dozen. Or perhaps this one thought himself able to take her out himself, there was no telling. If there were more, they were well-hidden.
Her bright blue eyes widened as he leaned in and rumbled to her, her teeth gritting in anger at his words. He had slain her kin. She opened her mouth to shoot back a scathing retort, but his hand jerked forward, faster than she had time to react. She stumbled backwards, pressing herself against the tree trunk as her steel chakram crumpled like paper in his grip. And when he yanked it away from her? Her choices were to either hold on and get her shoulder dislocated, or to let it go. Wisely, she chose the latter.
"Your fool tribesmen murdered my brother. Cut him down like a dog in an honorless ambush. I was deserving of my revenge," she spat, clinging to her remaining weapon. Her tail rose behind her, swaying sinuously, dangerously, the bladed tip glinting in the sunlight.
"Go back to your tribe, Chaghan. I have no further quarrel with you and yours." Adjusting her feet minutely, she grounded herself, allowing the solid feel of the earth beneath her feet to infuse her body. Calmly, she gazed at him... then jerked her own hands up, summoning a shield of solid rock to rumble upwards between them, and like a wave, go crashing toward him.
"Honor is a crutch." The reply came so fast, so harsh. A snarl upon his lips as he all but shoved the poor little thing onto her ass. One foot rose, armored and clad in thick leathers, scale and steel- There would be no quick slashes of /that/ limb, not without notable effort. That foot came slamming down, then, planting itself into the tree-trunk with such force as to embed itself an ilm inwards, the wood cracking, splintering around it.
And then, then that shield of rock rose, and for a moment? For a moment it seemed like it would force him back, part them. Right up until his own hand rose, and /caught/ the top of it. His fist curled in, shamanic magics flowing through his own arm, the earth answering his call, answering her own- ... Two opposing requests, two demands, and while it did not summarily respond to his own will over her own, the conflict between them earned something closer to a 'fizzling out', their wills clashing, and the magic simply falling apart between them, the earth stopping where it was.
And when the earth stopped- ... Well, that was when he tightened his grip, and /shoved/ his hand downwards, cracking and ripping through the stone as if it had been as soft as loam.
"Oh no. You don't get to get off that easy." He snarled to her, pushing through, that monstrous, grasping hand reaching for her throat, to catch to it and, if he got ahold, to thrust her back, against that trunk. Aiming to pin her right down in place. "I couldn't give less of a damn what happened to your brother. But you took five lives in place of one. You owe me a debt, Dotharl."
In the distance, she could hear the sound of hooves- Not Chocobo talons. That could only mean one thing, more Steppe warriors. More Chaghan, most likely. She was surrounded, more likely than not.
"And you've what, four mates? Three and a dog? That seems a fitting payment to me." As his men rode closer, he moved to heft Sohkatani up, into the air, lifting her skyward- She still had that bladed tail, and her chakram, and he was almost half-amused at the thought of how she might try to use them. "You and your brat can live, but I'll be taking the heads of each of the men you love."
Sohka staggered back hard against the tree trunk, her feet slipping out from under her and landing hard on her ass. Flinching as he planted his foot against the tree hard enough to nearly break through it, she watched the wall of earth rise...
... only for despair to write over her expression as the elements responded to his call as well as her own. To be as massive and musclebound as he was and also have mastery over shamanistic magic? That was simply unfair.
He shoved his hand down, breaking the wall of stone apart as easily as if it had been made of fine sand, and she raised her hands to shield herself from the falling rocks and bits of debris that rained down on her, blinking rapidly to clear the dust from her eyes - only to find her throat grabbed, thick, terrifyingly strong fingers coiling around that slender column.
Squirming and raking her claws over his hand in a bid to get free, she coughed, gasping for breath. "I owe you nothing, Chaghan," she hissed, her voice strained from the grip on her throat. When she heard the hoofbeats, though, a thrill of panic raced through her. Out-muscled, out-maneuvered and out-numbered, it didn't appear she'd be getting out of this. At least, not easily.
And then he spoke again, and her blood ran cold. Unbidden, the horrifying sight of him smashing in Altan's, Ganz's, Khel's, Naran's heads in came to her mind. No... no, she had to get free - she had to warn them that this was a trap to get them to come for her, as she knew they would.
She opened her mouth to speak, but then she was being lifted by her throat and abruptly, she had no air. Kicking ineffectually, she desperately clawed at his hand, tail lashing wildly behind her. No, no, no! This couldn't be the way this ended!
Simply unfair was exactly the term for it. It was unfair. It was monstrous. This man. This beast. This horrifying brute.
He was a monster.
A towering mass of muscle, magic and mounting fury which she could almost taste.
It almost would have been arousing, had he not been who he was.
"You do not get to decide what you owe me. Dotharl." He snarled to her as his grip tightened in, and- ... He wasn't letting up. That grip, that hold. Curling in around her windpipe, constricting it-
He was strangling her.
"There it is." He breathed out then, even as her vision started to blur, a smile visible to her eyes. "That fear.."
And that. That reminder. That she, a Dotharl, felt fear, was his gift to her as her consciousness began to drift away.
And when it returned? It was not to the warm sands of Thanalan, but to the rocking of a boat underneath her, and the tight wrap of ropes to her skin, gripping so invasively as she was bound, hog-tied, and left upon a pile of furs.
Sohka swallowed against that tightening grip, adrenaline and panic running cold through her. Her head pounded, her lungs screamed with the need to breath, but he wasn't letting up. Her lips parted and she tried to gasp in even the tiniest sip of precious oxygen, but his grip was too tight. She kicked and she clawed as she swung from the brute's grip; blood dripped from the back of his hand from her nails, but he didn't even seem to feel it.
Fear? Oh yes, she felt it. But it wasn't fear for herself. She wasn't afraid to die, not even like this, if it would save her mates. She knew it would not, though - and that was where her fear came in. Fear for their lives, not her own.
Darkness began to hover at the edges of her blurred vision and her limbs felt heavy, all the sudden. She gave a few more desperate kicks... and then everything went black.
She had no idea how long she was out, but it had to have been for a considerable amount of time, if they were already on a ship. Her eyes fluttered open and she immediately closed them again against the glare of the sun. Her lungs ached, her head throbbed in pain. Being strangled into unconsciousness was not a pleasant way to go, but at least she was still alive. At least she still had a chance.
Squirming, she tried to move her tail, to use the sharp edge of it to saw the ropes that bound her. If she could get free... well, hopefully they were still close to shore.
(Collaboration between Ganz Avagnar and myself. With mentions of @houserosaire and @thedarknesssings)
