#i like to think the bandages on the young au ra horns are to help them grow in correctly

[shalpilot]

i have a sword and you don’t, so,

[allegedlyanandroid]

Pairing: Allen60 Prompt: Cold Types: Found Family, Fluff AU: Angels and Demons, Sixty as the little devil he is, and Allen just being human.

I am so late 😅 I wrote an entire thing before realising I hated every word of it and started over from scratch. Anyway... excuses aside, I hope you like it @yayen-chan <3 `(‾◡◝)´ 

“Okay, bookshelves first,” Allen mutters, following the intricate maze of arrows and concrete as he tries to navigate the local IKEA. “Or rugs. That works too,” he sighs when he glances up and finds himself in the wrong part of the store. Looking through the copious amounts of different rugs Allen rapidly finds himself overwhelmed. He tries reading a few of the ridiculously complicated names, stuttering over them when trying to read them out loud. “Ra- raskmol- mölle?”  

Giving up on the fifth time trying to pronounce it correctly Allen rolls the grey-and-black striped fabric up and tosses it on the cart, already dreading trying to find the rest of the items on his list. There’s only one really but when passing through the plant-section he stops to pick up a potted plant. The other one is beyond salvaging from lack of water. “Ilex, foreeneling? För-enlig. What are these names?”  

After another dead-end and some frustrated grumbling, he does find the bookshelf he needs. Honestly… this trip alone solidifies why he’s never getting a puppy. The one he took in to foster was a sweet thing but very demanding and unaware that he weighed quite a lot for a pup. He’d knocked Allen’s bookshelf over, thus breaking it, and also had an accident on his rug. If being petless meant never having to go here again then that’s a price he’s willing to pay. At least the shelter had found a family for him quickly and, while he did miss the little rascal, the puppy was undoubtedly in better hands.  

“Kallax, hemnes... gersby?”

Too caught up in his own head he doesn't notice the strange scent of warm brimstone and ash filtering through the air nor does he notice the young “man” standing behind him, a man who seemingly appeared out of thin air, until he hears the sound of a throat clearing. Allen jerks his head up from wrestling with the cardboard box and offers an apologetic smile over his shoulder. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

“Or, you could tell me why I’m here and spare me the mundane small talk you humans seem so obnoxiously fond of.”

“I’m sorry?”

The man squints. “You summoned me.”

Allen pauses to take a good look at the man. He’s tall with black, artistically tousled hair and endless amounts of freckles. A few moles are scattered across his skin and his brown eyes are filled with irritation. Dark jeans with a long-sleeved shirt tucked into it, a black overcoat ending at about mid-thigh and a purple scarf hanging unknotted around his neck. Allen thinks long and hard yet finds no recollection of ever seeing this man before in his life let alone speaking to him. “I have no idea who you are.”

“You-” the man pinches the bridge of his nose, inhales deeply and slowly let it out before starting again. “You read the incantation to evoke me and you what… didn’t even realise it?” he asks and receives nothing but a blank stare from Allen in return. “Ugh, humans.”

In the blink of an eye the man transforms. Horns curve with the shape of his skull, producing from close to his temples, before ending in sharp tips that blend in with his raven hair. A black tail is wrapped around his leg which ends with a jagged spear-like point. The tips of his fingers look like they’ve been dipped in charcoal, fading into dark grey about halfway up his fingers, with claw-like black nails top it all off. They tap against the metal shelf next to them as the demon slowly advances.  

Too shocked to move, Allen’s jaw is taken in a firm grip and when the demon smiles his teeth are pointed blades. “So… are you going to tell me what it is you want?”

“You can let go of my face for a start,” Allen says, adding a quick “thank you,” when the demon does as he’s told. “What’s your name?”

“You may call me Sixty.”

“Sixty,” Allen repeats. “No offence but I quite like having my soul intact. I’m sorry for dragging you from… whatever circle of hell you reside in, but I’m not interested in making any sort of deal with you.”

“Sucks to be you then because I’m not leaving until you do,” Sixty says and from his tone of voice alone Allen knows he’s a hundred percent serious.  

‘Fucking IKEA.’

-

“Really? You couldn’t have chosen to live somewhere a bit warmer?” Sixty asks with disdain, thankfully back to looking human. His feet sink into the four inches worth of snow dusting the ground and he can already feel the cold seeping in through the gaps in his clothing. “Or somewhere nicer in general.”

“No one’s forcing you to stay.”

“No one’s forcing you to live here.” A pause. “Or if they are, I am more than willing to kill them for you free of charge.”  

Allen sighs.

-

Having a demon for a housemate isn’t as bad as he thought it would be. Sixty mostly keeps to himself whenever he isn’t trying to get a rise out of him or complaining about the cold or putting things on tall shelves like the little shit he is. Until Sixty gets bored that is.

Because when Sixty gets bored trouble ensues.  

-

Emerging from his office after a long day of meetings to see his demonic housemate casually chatting with parts of his team in the breakroom is a bit out of left field and the sight of Sixty’s mischievous eyes boring into his own is enough to quicken his pace. “What are you doing here, Si- Silas?” he asks, forcing a smile on his face.

He hates how no one else can look past the innocent brown eyes and syrupy grin to see the smugness beneath. “I thought we were supposed to eat lunch together? Did you forget?”

“No, of course not,” Allen hastens to say, ignoring Willis and Clark’s knowing grins, as he wracks his brain for a response. “Though I distinctly remember asking you to wait outside.”

“It would have been rude of me to decline Julie’s offer of getting coffee,” Sixty replies and raises his mug as if to show it off.

“No need to be jealous, boss. We just wanted to get to know the guy better,” Julie says.

“Yeah, it’s not like we’ve ever seen you hang out with anyone outside of work apart from Reed,” Clark pipes up. “We got curious.”

“I’m not jealous!” Allen tries to defend himself, latching on to the word, but the agitated tone does nothing to help his case. Sixty smirking behind the rim of the coffee cup like a cat who got the cream isn’t helping to improve his mood either.

“You are the pettiest asshole I’ve ever had the unfortunate luck of meeting,” Allen says when they’re safely away from prying eyes.

Sixty snickers, knowing full well the amount of endless curiosity and ceaseless questions he’s unleashed on the human. “There’s an easy way to get rid of me.”

The fistful of snow he gets shoved in his face shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

By the time he manages to blink the melting snow out of his eyes Allen is too far away to retaliate, though that doesn’t stop Sixty from trying.  

-

Despite his best efforts Sixty’s irritation with being unceremoniously dragged into the mortal plane dissipates after the third week of staying with Allen. By the time he’s been there for a month and a half, Allen’s team have adopted him as one of their own and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t flattered. They genuinely care about his well-being and often invite him along on outings. As someone whose family is… overbearing, their light-hearted ribbing is a nice change of pace. Their easy dynamic is the very opposite of stifling. No one ever pries when he declines to answer a question. No one touches him after he made it clear he dislikes physical contact. No one quizzes him about his every movement.

It’s… nice.

The next team building exercise and subsequent photo op, proudly displayed on the communal fridge, includes him and Sixty doesn’t cry even a little bit upon seeing that.  

Not at all.

-

In the end, the shift in their relationship is near seamless ‒ from reluctant roommates to friends to something more.  

What hits him first is the metallic scent of fresh blood and Sixty is halfway across the room before he can even process rising to his feet. He gathers Allen up in his arms and leads him to sit down on one of the kitchen chairs. Part of his dark shirt is tacky with blood and Sixty feels no remorse when he shreds it to get it off as quickly as possible. Something, a bullet or knife, must have grazed his side. It’s bleeding sluggishly though it thankfully isn’t deep. Sixty takes the ruined shirt and presses it against the wound. “Keep putting pressure on it.”

Allen doesn’t answer and in the end he’s the one who has to move Allen’s hand to take over while he dashes to the bathroom for the medkit. Sixty plunks it down on the floor and fills a bowl of lukewarm water to put down beside it before fetching a clean towel. He kneels down between Allen’s legs and cleans meticulously around the area, noting the patches of skin where bruises are slowly forming. Swiping over the wound with antiseptic earns him a bitten-off hiss and Sixty puts a hand on Allen’s sternum to steady him after the first involuntary flinch.  

He keeps it there, soothed by feeling the steady thrum of Allen’s heartbeat beneath his fingertips, until he needs the use of both his hands. In its absence, Sixty’s tail comes up to wrap loosely around his thigh for comfort.  

Butterfly bandages instead of sutures, his tail instead of his hand. Allen doesn’t say a word about either choice though he is smiling down where they’re connected once Sixty chances a quick peek.

There’s nothing left for him to do after covering the wound with gauze, taping the edges down, yet Sixty finds himself lingering there regardless.  

It’s easy to trace around the gauze with the very tip of a claw and when he catches Allen’s dark eyes the urge to lean down to place a gentle kiss over it wins out. Allen sighs quietly and coaxes Sixty up to kiss him properly ‒ a chaste press of lips against lips followed by a sincere thank you.  

Sixty blushes and knocks his forehead against Allen’s, mindful of his horns, in a silent show of affection.

-

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

“Because I literally stepped in the door a second ago?” Allen laughs and pulls Sixty in for a quick kiss.

“Excuses,” Sixty sniffs and steals another kiss, one that quickly devolves into a dozen pecks being pressed all over his face until Allen plants a last lingering one to his lips.

“I love you,” Allen says when they break apart for real.  

The shy smile spreading over Sixty’s lips is one he’ll never tire of seeing.

[finalfantasyxivwritings]

Are You my Nhaama?

AO3 Version

Relationship: Magnai/Raen!Reader

Rating: Teen

Wordcount: 1.8k

Summary: In which the reader, a Raen Au Ra healer, realizes they are the beloved Nhaama of Magnai Oronir.

-

“Are you my Nhaama?”

The question catches you off-guard. It yanks you from your thoughts so suddenly that you scarcely have enough time to turn your eyes to the source. 

So focused had you been on tending to a young Oronir warrior, the approach of another is the last thing on your mind--the footsteps all but numbed from your perception when compared to ensuring the gash on the young boy’s arm is sufficiently bandaged.

Though you have been a guest of the Oronir for but a week, you've already learned to deal with the prodding attention of its older warriors. Those who assume they know more than you, some still who see your work as useless--and some, though very few, who see your light-colored scales and say nothing at all, gazes hard and suspicion clear.

It's a healer’s job to heal. To care for people who need help. Though you may have not seen yourself traveling upon the Azim Steppe but few months before, you have long-since accepted to go where fate guides you.

So of course, in the presence of such a large Xaela tribe, you had expected the presence of others to interrupt your hands as they bandage wounds, your thoughts as you channel careful aether into ill bodies.

However, the sight of Magnai himself, leader to the Oronir, falls far beyond such feeble assumption. It's rare to see him, rarer still to see him outside of the throne room, for you have only seen him but twice before.

Once to allow you upon the Dawn Throne, and once to offer you extended blessings for your work upon the tribe. The latter of which was three days ago, when you realized how deep injuries from the previous battle had run across the tribe's members.

But neither time did you feel nearly as afraid as you do now at his approach, his strides long and hurried, reaching you in but a breath of time from the moment your eyes finally lay upon his grand form.

Worry creeps up into your words as you speak despite the desperate efforts to keep the tone even.

“W-what....did you say, r-radiant brother M-Magnai?

Surprise fills your veins and keeps you frozen in place, eyes wide as the moon as the man approaches you. A look of fire burns in his gaze as he stops at last, but a stride or two in front of you, keeping a distance though he looks like a predator readied to pounce.

“My Nhaama,” the leader repeats, tone firm and as unyielding as the rest of his being.

The word is more familiar in mind than upon your tongue, for it is a Xaela word for a Au Ra belief.

You blink, trying to let the thoughts catch up to you, recalling the significance of what the Xaela call the Dusk Mother--Nhaama--and how it ties so intricately with the Oronir tribe. 

How Magnai, believing himself to be the mortal-born Dawn Father, known as Azim to the Xaela, searches endlessly for his lover--his equal and destined Nhaama.

To hear him accuse, no, to question if you are such a one as that...

You know not what to say. But the silence at least is not long-lasting, for the leader of the Oronir is quick to speak.

“For years have I wondered if my Nhaama would be born outside of the Steppe, less so outside of the Xaela--but after many sunfalls of thought, such sense does it make at last!” 

Magnai’s words are filled with such warmth and energy, an excitement that mirrored that of a child--you can't help but feel a heat across your cheeks as you listen and look upon the man, rising slowly to your feet to but come barely to his chest.

“Just as Azim took on the form of the Xaela, so too might the sun’s own fated one be of the Raen--a union of Dusk and Dawn, of Sun and Moon. An ethereal maiden of healing as if blessed by the Dusk Mother herself--I have seen how your gentle touch has already healed the brave warriors who follow the Sun.”

The words, spoken with such flourish and care, leave you without a single sound in your throat. All you can do is stare at the man, still frozen, still silent, taking in all he has to say.

“You have found your way home at last, into the warm embrace of the Sun’s court, for the Oronir--for the heavenly Sun himself--have been waiting for you. My sweet, beloved Nhaama.”

From around the Dawn Throne’s land, people approach. Young and old step into the open area, if only to explore the commotion of noise of their leader’s booming voice, for Magnai did naught to keep his confident declarations of love quiet.

You can see them all as they grow nearer, some trying to hide their curiosity behind the edges of nearby tents, and others yet who cared if they were seen watching with crossed arms and quirked brows. Buduga and Oronir warriors alike, all watching in a slowly-gathering crowd, gazes fixed upon the grand Xaela warrior at its center, and the small Raen healer who he stood in front of in but a grand display, arms outstretched and tail lashing behind him in that same child-like excitement.

The beat of your heart is rapid. It hammers hard in your chest, making your blood rush and your head feel dizzy. Thoughts come too rapidly for you to catch. Like sand through loosely-bound fingers, they slip through. All you can do is stand and behold Magnai in all of his show, his burning attention upon you and you alone.

Despite it all, your eyes remain locked with his. You heard his words, yes, but they scarcely pierce through your swirling emotions. For as many experiences you’ve held close to your chest, for as many near-deaths, fears, hopes and dreams that you’ve clutched in the years since birth, never once did you feel an emotion quite like the one filling your chest now.

It feels warm. It feels radiant. It feels comforting and familiar.

Like a switch, a button, something flipped inside of your heart. A revelation crashed through your mind like an ocean of water, threatening to swallow you whole, to drown you in its never-ending pressure. One of your hands reached up to your own chest, fingertips digging into the cloth that lay over your heart as if you had to keep it from jumping out.

And still you met Magnai’s gaze.

Without meaning to, you take a step forward.

You take another, and then a third. 

Magnai is still as you approach him, closing the last few strides of a gap between your forms, until he is close enough to reach out and touch. He makes no move nor shift. Though he could all but reach out and grab you the man keeps himself still, as if but the slightest motion may scare you away.

The warmth in your chest only grows as you get close to him, getting hotter until it’s a burning radiance of emotion you can but barely describe, of which the Oronir leader is the undeniable source. 

Careful. Cautious. Unsure.

You reach a hand up, fingertips shyly brushing across the side of the man’s face. Though you struggle for a few moments to reach him comfortably upon the tips of your toes, Magnai wordlessly leans down enough that you can lay your palm flat over the curve of his cheek, fingertips against the texture of his obsidian scales as black as night.

And then, you feel compelled to speak. A deep instinct bubbles within your chest. It is primal, the feeling, and one you cannot stop.

“You are my Sun.”

It feels as natural as breathing. 

"My...Azim."

If not for how you looked so closely upon Magnai’s face, you might have missed the way his eyes widen, glimmering golden in the light of the sun above. You might miss how his lips tremble or his body shakes. The man’s brows knit tight above his eyes in a range of emotions untrained or simply unprepared, the words a key to an ocean of raw feelings he too was not ready to feel.

And all the while, to the outside world, the two of you stand in silence. 

Magnai finally reaches a hand up to your face. His fingertips lightly stroke across one of your horns, as if committing the shape and texture already to his memory.

“You are the most beautiful thing ever to grace the vision of the Sun.”

His words are a whisper, spoken soft and intimate for only the two of you to hear. After a moment longer you feel the man’s hand shift, cupping one side of your face against his palm; the touch is warm, fingertips calloused from years of training and battle. 

Your heart sings for the simple gesture.

“I...” you start, heartbeat beginning to race again as you take in the moment. “I don’t understand what’s going on....why I feel this way...”

“Worry not, my Nhaama, you will learn the details of your journey to me in time.” Magnai reaches his other hand out to cup your face completely, thumbs gently rubbing over the curve of your cheekbone, as if tracing the lines of your scales. “Know only that you will be loved and cared for in all of your years under the embrace of the Sun. I have found you at last.”

At last his hands move, arms reaching around your body to tug you against him--you offer no rejection, just a soft noise of surprise as you feel your form press flush to his. Your face instinctively nuzzles against where it reaches of the man’s chest before your eyes peer up to meet Magnai’s own once more.

In but one breathless moment he pulls you up and into his arms, lifting you off your feet enough so that neither he nor you have to strain to reach eachother’s lips. 

There is no hesitation in how your mouths meet, and neither is there issue with the shape of your horns and his. It is truly an exhilarating thought, a revaluation, your bodies and faces and lips meeting as if you were truly crafted to be with one another. 

Though you feel a gentle pressure of his horns sliding against your own, there is nothing to stop him from claiming your lips with tongue and teeth, from growling into the kiss in a manner that only vaguely reminds that you have an audience of Oronir and Buduga still watching the union before their very eyes.

Before you could think to pull away, Magnai has long-since felt the subtle change in the pressure of your lips. His face pulls back just enough, though your foreheads still touch, breaths mingling delicately across one another’s skin.

“I have found you at last,” the man murmurs lowly, making no effort to release you or allowing you out of his arms. “And now that I have you, my beautiful Nhaama, I will never let you go.”

[kharmaisa]

Enkhsegr : Nhaama’s Retrievers

(Thank you @kha-merc-ffxiv for the RP)

More than an Epoch ago...

It was dark out. The Dawnfather 's sun was just starting to come over the horizon. The guards had been more alert than usual, at least those more astute would notice. in the distance, a group of four tribe members returned. Two males and two females. One of the males carried a smaller female. This one, obviously a child. She was dark red in color and bandaged around her neck, arms, and a leg. All four were let in and no one followed them.

The adults talked and chattered among themselves. Keeping any woke children away seemed to be the prerogative one of the females. One of the younger ones seemed to busy himself by sharpening axes. He watched on from a distance. This early though, most in the camp had not stirred. There was news on a request a few days ago, asking for help to save some Xaela fro ma Dothral tribe. It had sparked some debate. Taking people to replenish ranks and also for breeding purposes was common in Xaela lands. Still, some had been adamant in this case. One of such was the male carrying the girl now.

There was more than one meant to be saved... yet only one was brought back. They took her to the medical tent where her wounds were dressed. It would be known that the girl was put unconscious by the Kha, lest she make escape impossible with her actions.

"<She's a wild one,>" one explained in Xaelic. "<Likely thought us another tribe taking her instead of helping,>" another replied.

"<What of the other, Sacha? There was a woman you spoke of.>"

The one who carried the girl was quiet a moment. The light brown male with medium horns was in his twenty-fourth summer of life, yet never had he looked so displeased. "<...She wouldn't follow. She never spoke, but ... I knew the gestures. 'Take the child and go,' is what she meant. >" He shook his head. "<She went back out sooner than later. Likely the reason we got away in the first place.>"

The adults spoke more among themselves before leaving the healing Gher. There was at least one person inside per usual. For the moment, the girl was unconscious. Her Black hair was black, her frame thinner than it should be. The healing tent seemed to remain quiet until a bell later. A shriek of a sound came from inside. Someone was clearly not happy. By this point, there were at least two healers in the gher, but they also shouted for the girl to remain still. Magic was used inside, given the odd lights that flashed inside the gher. It took only about two minutes before Sacha raced inside there. He seemed to stay in there a while after that, though the girl seemed to calm down. Many hours and a soft conversation later, one of the healers left the tent. Her eyes were searching for someone. Her eyes eventually fell on Kharagrel. With a small smile, the healer who left approached the boy near the axes. "<Kharagarel... up early as usual,>" she said, pleased. "<Have you any early morning chores left?>" Kharagerel shook his head no and pinched her cheeks. "<Not anymore. It's almost noon but thanks to that startling yell I dropped a lot of the armory and was forced to pick them up. I've just about finished. Need something?>" Kharagerel looked up wondering. The blue healer with black hair looked to the sun. "<So it is almost noon.,>" she looked back to him, an apologetic expression on her face. She pulled away from the boy and rubbed her cheek some. "<I'm glad you are diligent and picked it up so fast. I have a new quest for you. There is an injured girl here. Her name is Kharma, only a bit older than you perhaps. Would you be able to show her around camp and what chores you do?>" "<I guess I could show her around. My training doesn't start till an hour from now.>" He said before heading in the gher. The healer watched the boy past her and go into the healing yurt. To his right was the male Xaela, Sacha, sitting beside the girl who was holding her knees and trying not to cry more. From her seated position, the girl pulled back immediately from the boys entrance. She was clearly injured. There was a bandage around her neck which seemed clean. Both of her arms were bandaged. Past her loose shorts, a bandaged could be seen from her thigh. He was very hyper as he had walked past the blue healer and grabbed Kharma's hand. "<Call me Khara okay!! I'm gonna show you around we do things differently than other tribes so if ya got questions ask the adults I'm not sure why it's strange but others from different tribes find our ways weird okay!!>"  When he grabbed her hand, Kharma gave a yell and attempted to scratch him. Before knowing if she succeeded or not, Sacha grabbed the offending hand.  Kharma attempted to attack him with her tail. Sacha moved in to block it, sparring the boy from assault. The healer who led Khara inside pulled Khara back. She explained to him again that this girl is injured. He is to work on his patience and move slowly with her. The blue healer woman and Khara were about 6 feet from where the light brown Sacha and the red Kharma were. She was also given a stern talking to. He explained that she was safe here. They would not hurt her, as the Dorthal did. They were Kha. This, for the time being, was going to be her new home. She only calmed down after he mentioned that they would help her get healed again, then possibly help her find her true tribe. The girl was quieter at that point. Her limbal rings around her eyes glowed thanks to how watery her eyes were. She was still upset. While the healer encouraged her to stay in and rest, the 10-year-old Kharma seemed insistent on getting up and walking around. Eventually, she would get up and follow Khara, not wanting any contact from the boy at all. Kharagerel stopped walking after they visited the cooking area and leatherworking area he looked down and faced Kharma and apologized. "<I'm sorry that I hurt you! I'll try to be more considerate of your wounds!>" he looked up and slammed his fist on his chest breathed in. "<I'm gonna be a Axe wielder and fight for the Kha someday and seeing that I hurt you, someone I'll be calling family I wanna make it up to you stay here!!!>" Khara immediately ran away into a Yurt. Stay Kharma did. She didn't say a word of her aching leg. Instead, she just took whatever rest she got on n strides. She watched him go, noting which gher he went into. He was strange to her. He yelled, like the Dothral children did, except there was no anger in his voice. He was not excited over something bad, but something.... new, she figured. She also couldn't follow his words that well. Her horns might still be damaged after all. No matter, she figured. She will survive this weaker place, too. Survive, get stronger, slaughter Dothral minus the children. She, unlike them, had standards after all. Kharma's thoughts were kept to herself.  She remained very watchful of everyone else, not saying a word to them. The bandage on her neck began to change colors from how much she turned her head this way and that. Kharagerel quickly ran back to Kharma carry a package in his arm and wheeled a cart as well. "<Here! It's Buuz made with meat from Baras I helped Killed,>" he handed one to her and quickly, but carefully lifted her thinking she weighted nothing and placed her on the cart that surprisingly had stuffed pillows for her to sit on.  "<You were barely able to keep standing and I still need to show you more! But I can't if your wounds open again so I got this. Usually, it's for transporting materials our gathers get when we move but I figured this would help as well.>" he smiled grinning.    Word of Buuz distracted her. One could hardly tell if she registered his words. By the time he came in close, she was in too much pain to retaliate, but she certainly made an angry Au Ra noise. Her tail slashed but managed to miss him. By that point, she was in a cart and had Buuz. Her eyes didn't glow as much since she eyes weren't as wet, but she did watch him as she took a bite of the food. It was better than she remembered it. The last person who made it for her was... Kharma's eyes started glowing again. The sun sparkled off her teary eyes while she frowned at him having seen her weakness. "<I stand.... I strong. Stronger...,>" her voice was quiet and a bit raspy. She took larger bites of food, eating angrily as if it was the only thing she could do. She paused only after nearly choking. Kharagerel turned his head to the side "<You needn't keep the Bravado we aren't in battle and if you want power then keep your body in mind otherwise you'll be to weak to get stronger okay? Because in this state even I can beat you also if you open your wounds I'll get in trouble.>"  Kharma listened to him, but stopped looking to him. Perhaps she felt a little bad? She ate slowly now. Her throat still burned, but she was hungry. This child was young and knew nothing, she thought to herself. Her eyes finally looked up to him. She felt bad slightly. He did not know nothing... he knew nothing of the life she had is all. He clearly knew his way around camp. She gave the smallest of nods, coming to see him as more of an asset. From then on out, she paid a bit more attention to where he took her and what he showed her. Kharagerel gave Kharma his flask of water as he pushed the cart to the eating area. "<I don't know what kind of life you lived but us Kha learn from others and put those experiences and knowledge we gained to better ourselves,>” Kharagerel took out some dried jerked jackel meat and sat next to the cart. “<Remember that one day you'll be my comrade in arm's alright?>" he took a bite ripping it in half and handing it over to her She accepted the flask, though scrutinized the item like everything else she was ever handed. She looked at him again as he spoke. Taking a chance, she drank from it, the bandage around her neck was still darkening. She did not seem to mind it much. She handed the flask back to the boy who was likely younger than her, despite being about as big as her. All around them, tribe members regarded them here and there. Sacha was seen many yards back, occasionally watching to make sure the girl was behaving. Satisfied this was true, he eventually left. Kharma noticed nothing of this. he was too far back and behind her to see him checking on them. She ran the boys words through her mind again. "<Com -rade....>" she repeated. Kharagerel smiled at the words. "<Yeah meaning that we got each other's backs, that we'll look after and help keep the other safe!!"> He took a bite of his Jackal jerky as he formed a fist and lightly put it near her motioning her to do  the same "<S-safe...>" She spoke out, not fully believing such possible. 

The next year would prove that they were kept safe. The Kha had no troubles from without. Their biggest concern was that within. At least, Sacha's was. The rescuer of the motherless Xaela was tasked with watching her. He saw that the injury on her neck was healed, though the scales that grew around her neck were never going to be the same. Kharma often pushed herself in attempt to prove she could handle herself. The first year she was there she was only able to do minimum exercise. She still did not talk much. When she did, her words sounded strange and she often got upset. At the very least, at the end of the first year, Kharma's wounds were fully healed. More years went by for the children of Enkhsegr. As Nhaama's Restorers, the Kha clan was well versed in many things, usually bringing harmony and restoring the quality of items, physical or otherwise.  The only skill  Kharma picked up was whittling. She was good with a knife for cutting things. Most let her alone when they saw her with wood and a knife. Eventually, she would get better. Until she was 12, it looked more like she was just stabbing wood.  Her training was intense as well. On her own, she trained in methods Dothral used. Around others, she pushed herself hard in whatever way they were training. Kharma always pushed herself past the point of hurting. It would take a lot to make her stop. Thankfully, Khara was one of the few she occasionally listened to.  Time would pass. The two would grow apart. Getting close to Kharma proved difficult. The only thing that mattered to her was Finding Sarantduu. First, she would find a way to pay the Enkhsegr back for saving and raising her. What better way than to bear children for her savior?

[tonberryslantern]

Scars

Xanadu Mol boiled in the heat.  Though the window to the Bellworks office was open, the incoming breeze was just a bellows for the furnace that was her small room.  She’d stripped to the waist despite the open window and bright sun of midday, but it couldn’t be helped.  Even now her body demanded she tear off the cloth bandeau she wore for some semblance of modesty, as soaked through with sweat as it was. 

But despite her physical discomforts, it was a mental one which caused her normally upright posture to sag and her attentive eyes to find themselves staring equally at nothing and everything.  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror by her bed, naked and exhausted, wilting in the heat, and she forced herself to keep looking, to examine every bead of sweat, every curve of shape, every scale. 

“They’re scars, miss.” The blonde Hyur at the party, the small one, the crying one.  What was her name?  veronica? Victoria?  Something like that.  It didn’t matter.  It wasn’t the girl’s name that crawled like some malicious thing through Xanadu’s mind, but her face.  Perfect porcelain white skin and pale blue eyes like Spring ice just before the thaw. And those scars, small little things, but numerous, reddening her face, marring that skin. 

The words had driven a spear of frost through her heart.  “They’re scars.”  What had she thought they were?  Dirt? Did she need her eyes checked? No, not Xanadu’s eyes, no.  The eyes of the demon the other Au Ra had called them.  Those eyes missed nothing.  What had she said?  She could barely remember.  But it had been callous, and cruel.  Dirt. 

“They’re scars, miss.”

(Thanks to @gwenneth-in-wonderland and @arcianmartell and also @allthegall for fine inspiration and whatnots!)

The spear froze her soul. Even in this heat she could feel it still, pulsing inside of her, stiffening her lungs, slowing her heart, aching deep inside so she wanted to claw it out.

“Then wear some makeup,” she’d said to the girl.  Was it Victoria?  It must be. She would have remembered a Veronica or a Vivienne.  Wear some makeup.  She knew the pain she caused when she said it.  The words had slipped out unheeded, a reflex, an adder lashing out with fangs bared, dripping venom.  Why?  Out of fear?  Cruelty?  No, she knew why.

She remembered her first foray into makeup.  His name had been Castienne Laroque, and he had been beautiful.  In her girl’s eye he’d been a god.  His hair was like spun gold, his lips like rose petals, his eyes the stars in the sky and his voice like honeyed wine.  He wore his Scholasticae uniform like he was bred for it, and he had been, the scion of some minor noble house.  And he’d been kind, oh so kind.

No one was kind to Xanadu Mol, the freak, the dragon kin, the demon.  She’d had a thick accent and came from a far off land of heathens and heretics.  She had the eyes of the demon.  But not Castienne, no not him.  He said hello to her in those hallowed halls every morning, and once when she’d been sick and missed class he had brought her notes so she wouldn’t fall behind. Castienne was a hero.  He dreamed of being a knight, like in the books, heroic and strong, fending off dragons and saving maidens.

How often she thought of herself being rescued by him.  His divine purity saving her from the dragons, even the dragon within.  Nights she would lie awake imagining him taking her in his arms.  Her scales would shed off at his touch, her tail fall away and her horns disappear to reveal the curved, round ears of a Hyur.  Even she was not fool enough to believe in her wildest fancies she would be an Elezen, but perhaps he wouldn’t mind.

One day he’d asked to speak to her in private and her heart fluttered as only a young girl’s can. She skipped her afternoon lessons that day and set to work.  Her horns had been smaller then, not yet fully grown, and she spent bells arranging her hair to hide them just so.  From a distance she might be mistaken as having a pair of unfashionable buns low on the sides of her head, but even that was far better than reality.  She tied her tail to her leg with string, and though it made her wince with every movement it did not stick out of the back of her dress, nor make her skirts lift in the back.  The dress itself was as beautiful as any of the girls could have mustered, and it neatly covered her from chin to toe tip in brocade and lace, as was the fashion that year.

But finally, and most importantly was the makeup.  Though the dress could cover much, it did not cover her face.  Carefully, delicately, she applied foundation and powder, liquid cream that smelled like fish oil but matched her skin tone.  With all of it mushed into a paste she covered her scales. It took so long she feared she might miss her meeting.  It got into her hair and eyes where it stung like poison, but she pressed on.  Eventually there was nothing more to be done.  Where her scales had been was now just ridges, bumps, grooves of ill-defined texture almost but not quite the same color as her skin.

She was ready.

Castienne waited for her in the Pillars, at the Last Vigil, just steps from House Haillenarte, her adopted home.  Though she could not see through the frosted windows she imagined the whole house gathered to witness the budding of true romance, of a love they would never, could never experience first hand.  A love of the ages, mythic and magical.  A love that could save her.

Castienne turned to her, and in his hands he held something, a letter!  “Xanadu,” he had said.  “I didn’t think you’d come.”  She couldn’t remember how she’d replied, but it didn’t matter.  What came next were the words that meant something.  “Take this,” he had said, pressing the letter into her hands.  “And give it to Laniaitte.  You’re a ward of the Haillenartes, you know her.”

The letter smelled like lilacs.  Laniaitte’s favorite flower.  Laniaitte, pretty and prim with her red hair and her perfect blue eyes.  Laniaitte who never lacked for admirers.  Laniaitte who might be watching from the windows above, snickering at the little dragonkin in her best dress delivering messages of love to a real princess.

“And what is that on your face?  Is that mud?” He laughed, and she remembered it as a cruel laugh.

She ran back to the Schlasticae in tears, and the unending stream of them lodged in her so carefully applied makeup and caused it to lump and mold uncomfortably between her scales. She ran into her room and slammed the door.  No one came to see what was wrong.  She tore off the dress and the string got caught, painfully tearing at her tail. Her horns poked out from behind her hair, the too thin disguise having fallen away during her flight.

But the makeup did not come off so easily.  It stuck like paste, and she clawed at it screaming.  No one came to see what was wrong.  Finally she tore some free, and with it came several scales, tearing out of her skin and making her shrieks all the louder.  Blood ran down her cheeks and into her hands where those black, hideous scales lay in her palms like evidence.  Evidence of her stupidity, her shame, sin, her guilt for merely being alive. And so, one by one, screaming with every torn piece of her small body, Xanadu Mol ripped out her scales.  And no one came to see what was wrong.

She arrived at the infirmary in the dead of night, pounding on the chirugeon’s door until he opened it cloudy eyed and confused, and saw the half skinned ward of a high house standing before him, naked and slick with her own blood, trembling in the cold of the hallway.  He poured burning salves into the wounds and wrapped her up in bandages because he didn’t know what else to do and hadn’t liked being in the presence of those eyes, the eyes of the demon.  He did not ask what had happened.

The next morning Castienne came to visit, and he brought her notes.  She didn’t look at him.  He didn’t ask what had happened.  He did ask if she delivered the letter.  She told him she threw it in the fire.  He did not visit again.  No one did. She changed her own bandages and, when she could stand it no longer, limped painfully down to the laundry to wash her bedclothes.

After a moon her scales had begin to grow back, and it didn’t hurt so much.  She returned to her lessons in the remnants of her uniform, the sleeves and skirts torn.  Her teacher asked her what had happened to the uniform.  Bandages, she had said, and stared at him until he turned away.  No one liked meeting the eyes of the demon. Through the torn uniform her new scales, soft and shiny dark, could be seen in their old patterns on her skin for everyone to see.  She tied her hair back, away from her horns.  She brushed other students aside with her tail.

In her room at the Bellworks office in Ul’Dah Xanadu thought of the porcelain skin of the hyur girl, her cute round ears, and her ice blue eyes; the eyes of an angel.  The icy stab of the spear twisted in her gut, and she hissed, fingernails sliding over an unopened envelope on her desk that had long since ceased to smell of lilacs.  “Scars. What does she know of scars?”