#but being able to wrestle tigers bare handed is a sexy sexy skill

[kivaember]

Backstory Drabble for Bluebird Who Led The Coeurl Home

While writing part 2 to Aymeric meets WoL’s family, I realised that I should probably do some backstory to Atani and Aruci, since they’re popping up in it extensively. So, enjoy this ‘how did those two meet’ drabble! There’s a but of HC and lore-bending for Azim Steppe stuff, you know how it goes. 

Aruci Qalli was in a bit of a slump.

He sighed heavily as he slouched against the rough bark of a low-bent, ancient tree. It was the only tree on a hill which overlooked a large patch of flat plain, its spindly branches drooping down in a tangle that resembled a very brittle net. No one knew how old this tree was, it’d been here longer than any tribe’s oral history, and it always looked half-dead, but it never withered. It sat crooked and leaning, sprouting the occasional off-yellow leaves and brown flowers, but it kept on living.

No one dared to cut it down. The aether here felt… settled, and there were many superstitious tales about it. Some said the tree was an arrogant Xaela who challenged Nhaama for her place in the sky and was rooted to the earth for eternity in punishment. Some said it was an old memorial placed before Xaela and Raen were two separate people, and that to destroy it would bring the Gods’ wrath upon you. Some say it was the remnant of an Elder God, withered and old and weak. No one could agree on the tale, so this little tree was revered and feared both, and left alone.

It meant it was a good place to sit and sulk in peace. Hidden in the shadows that its drooping, brittle branches gave, Aruci stared across the flat plain. His mind was empty of any and all inspiration. No matter how much he tried to force it, his imagination was as dull as dirty water, and trying to stir the waters for creativity just dredged up useless silt. Which, normally, would be okay. Everyone had dry spells when it came to creativity, but Aruci didn’t have time to endure a dry spell.

The Qalli’s Coming of Age ceremony was in less than four turns of the sun, and while everyone else preparing for it had already composed their songs and were practicing them, Aruci had nothing. Just a few odd words and a melody that barely sounded acceptable to his horns. If he failed to demonstrate the proper creativity that a Qalli man should have, he’d have to wait until the next Summer to try again, and that would be humiliating. Only the truly tone-deaf or ill-talented had to retake the Coming of Age ceremony. He might as well crawl off to another tribe!

A flicker of movement in his peripheral drew him out of his sulking and he went still, his gaze snapping to the flicker to see – a tiger.

It was a powerful, stocky thing, with bulky shoulders and rippling muscles beneath his dull orange coat. It was large enough that it could fit its jaws around Aruci’s mouth without difficulty or disembowel him with a slash of those massive paws, so Aruci remained quiet and still, relieved that he was downwind of the monster. Steppe Tigers were a challenge even for experienced warriors, and Aruci, on the cusp of adulthood and trained more as a crafter than a hunter, would die within the first thirty seconds if it tried to fight him.

He supposed he could climb the tree, but it was a low, skinny thing, and somehow he doubted the tiger would care much about being cursed by gods if it knocked the thing down trying to eat him.

Aruci frowned when he realised something off about the tiger. It was limping. Indeed, its flank was wet with dark blood, and it kept the weight off that hindleg. Dangling from its jaws too was some rough-leather pack, probably stolen from some unfortunate corpse. Aruci slowly shifted to squat on the balls of his feet, supposing that if it was wounded he could just run away. Steppe Tigers were powerful, but they were ambush predators and didn’t fare well against long-distance pursuits. It’d have to sprint up the hill too, so he could…

“…aaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!”

Aruci and the tiger tensed at the banshee screech echoing across the plain. Bewildered and wondering if some evil spirit was descending from the sky, Aruci looked wildly around – only to see a lithe Xaela woman come charging up the hill the tiger had come from not too long ago, her armour proudly displaying the colours of the Borlaaq.

“YOU THIEVING FUCK!” the Borlaaq howled, spotting the tiger now frozen in place – probably too bewildered to react, “GIVE ME BACK MY JERKY!”

And in what Aruci could only describe as hunger-fuelled madness, the wild Borlaaq lunged at the Steppe Tiger with her fists swinging. He threw himself to his feet, torn between desire to intervene and desire to just watch this absolute disaster in the making, staring open-mouthed as the Borlaaq slammed into the tiger so hard the pair of them tumbled into the grass, rolling and tumbling over each other with shrieks and roars.

The Borlaaq was wrestling the damned tiger.

“GIVE IT!” she snarled, clenching her fingers into the pack and wrenching it hard. The tiger stubbornly clung on, twisting underneath her and smashing a heavy paw against her shoulder. Bright blood bloomed where its sharp claws tore through her huntress tunic, splitting the fabric from shoulder to sternum. The Borlaaq didn’t seem to notice, releasing the pack to try prying the tiger’s jaws open instead. The tiger batted at her again, and this time she flinched – then snarled, digging her fingers into its snout then-

Proceeded to yank the beast into an unforgiving headlock.

“DROP. THE. JERKY!” she roared, twisting them around to she was positioned at the beast’s back, choking it out as it uselessly thrashed on the ground. It was almost comical. The Borlaaq was tiny, smaller than the Steppe Tiger, but through sheer rage she was pinning it down and determinedly strangling the poor monster to death.

She was…

She was amazing.

As the tiger’s thrashing slowly died down, the pack tumbling from its slackened jaw, Aruci found himself staring at the woman with wonder in his eyes. Blood ran bright red rivulets over her tunic, the fabric split over to reveal pale, blood-streaked skin and the swell of her breasts. Her dark hair was in wild disarray, tumbling over her sharp, forward sweeping horns and framing a surprisingly delicate face that was twisted into a ferocious snarl. Her eyes were bright blue and blazing like a beast’s, her arms were thick with toned muscle and her body was tight and compact, with a thick, powerful tail. She was raw power, it was breath-taking to witness.  

There was a loud, sickening crack when the Borlaaq wrenched the tiger’s head, and the beast slumped, dead. With a breathless laugh, she climbed to her feet, standing triumphantly over the tiger’s corpse, bloodied and slick with sweat, a wild grin on her face. It was as if Nhaama herself had descended on the Steppe, terrible but beautiful and filled with righteous fury… or hunger, with how determined she’d been to get that jerky.

Aruci was instantly in love.

He watched as the Borlaaq gathered up her pack, slinging it over one shoulder before contemplating the tiger. She shook her head, but bent over, trying to arrange its hindlegs to drag it, and with a jolt Aruci realised she was going to leave. No, he couldn’t just let her walk away without at least getting her name! She may not think much of him, being a frail crafter and singer, but just knowing her name and holding that memory of witnessing such raw strength would be more than enough.

Forgetting entirely about the song he needed to compose, Aruci scrambled through the drooping tree’s brittle branches and half-tumbled down the hill, towards his Nhaama.