qatirna-can-read

[qatirna-can-read]

Auraugust Art Dump

I actually managed to get a piece out for every day of the first week. (They got... sparser as the month passed though)

1. Portrait

2. Home

3. Beginnings

4. Tank

5. Color

6. Scions

7. Family

10. Date Night

12. Stars

14. DPS (I actually drew this earlier, but I never posted it anywhere in an official way and... it is DPS - it’s Qatirna being a blackmage)

15. Magic

16. Ice

20. Picnic

24. Fire

27. Endwalker

28. Far From Home

30. Belonging

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[qatirna-can-read]

Family

I didn’t know how to bury my mother. That’s not to say I didn’t care for her body. I did. I did what everyone else did with their loved ones. What Petra did with her father. But I didn’t know the appropriate rights. To this day I don’t know what Dhoro burial rituals look like. I don’t even know what Xaela burial rituals look like generally. My own father received a burial at sea out of necessity before I can even remember. I don’t know his tribal rights either, but I know it wasn’t that. 

I’m sorry, Mama.

I did the best I could.

[qatirna-can-read]

Silver Lining - Q

To say she stirred awake would do a disservice - the implication far too neutral. That tiny mage woke in a panic every night, the same as this night, shooting up from her pillow, gasping and clawing for nothing. This time she had the added company of a pounding headache, a touch of dizziness, and a beautiful woman beside her. 

Once her breath eased to a more manageable pace, Qatirna looked down at the woman sharing her bed. A burning lamp post just outside the dingy inn room cast light and shadow on the sleeping Hyuran face. Long chestnut hair splayed messy on her pillow, plump lips just slightly parted. When they danced earlier in the night, those gorgeous peridot eyes sparkled with drunken joy and lustful hunger, but now they lay closed and peaceful. The woman, whose name Qatirna never quite caught, reached an arm over the Xaela’s lap, and in return Qatirna affectionately tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She smiled warmly. Ears were such funny things. She didn’t wish to wake the woman who deserved a peaceful rest, right? A murmured sound still spilled in from under the door to their room - a whole crowd, a whole boisterous party, still danced and sang and shouted just outside. Maybe Qatirna’s gasping didn’t wake her sleeping companion, but that noise unimpeded almost certainly would. She wouldn’t risk it.

Their clothes lay strewn about the floor, but her satchel was easy to find. Delicately, the tiny mage lifted the woman’s arm as she scooted out of bed, replacing herself with her own pillow. She found some of her clothes before giving up, wrapping a length of fabric back to forward to up to back and tying a knot at the nape of her neck, a simple enough sarong to cover what oughtn’t be shown in public. The washroom had a small window that the tiny mage could reach if she climbed up on the sink. It had a latch to allow patrons to open for fresh air, but that little thing was small enough to squeeze through, and she did - before tumbling idiotically into the bushes below. 

She was fine. They were on the first floor. 

She stood to dust herself off and those wide violet eyes stared up into the night sky as she started her trail away from the inn room. The moon was full and bright, but the sky was cloudy. It created a beautiful but eerie picture as slivers of light painted that dark sky. Her own silver lining - Nhaama couldn’t watch her walk of shame.

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Benthos - O

Her first steps on land were shaky. Coming from a long line of Haragin, she’d never spent more than a few weeks consecutively on solid ground, and for over two years now, she’d barely stepped foot off a boat for more than a turn or two of the sun. 

She was free, but she didn’t feel like it. Finally escaping the consequences of a mistake she didn’t regret making, but those consequences followed her in their own way. She could never return to the sea. What kind of a life is that for a Haragin?

Everything hurt in a bitter sort of way. The comfort that usually came from the misting of the water off of craggy rocks, the smell of the ocean, the sounds of calling seabirds, even just watching the sails off in the distance - growing or receding over the horizon - it all felt like parts of her heart ripped away. It all reminded her of what she’d lost. 

She walked awkwardly, like a child might during a growth spurt, unsure of the placement of her own feet beneath her. She had to grip onto the railing to not trip while she made her way from the dock onto the real earth, and the way the ground felt beneath her feet… Maybe it was nothing more than the feeling of dirt sinking, and the land still holding strong, stable and unmoving. But it felt more to her like the earth was grabbing her feet and holding onto her. And she was furious. Angry with herself. Angry with the Garleans. Angry with the sailors who could still call the sea their home. She wanted to shatter the world.

But for now, she needed to find a way to survive. She could find a job as a healer on land and sea, and she needed a damn stiff drink. Both could be found at the nearest tavern. 

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Fluster - Story Time - Q

The mage wandered through Reunion. She wandered most places, even when she had a determined destination. Her clothing covered her head to toe, the only things poking out were the tips of her horns and a few loose locks of hair. With the weather getting colder, the wind bit at her nose and her fingertips, but the chill was merely a convenient explanation for the real reason she started dressing so much more modestly. 

Today she looked for someone in particular, and she found her. The pale scaled Qestiri woman who currently seemed entirely stumped by a wagon wheel that would turn backwards but not forwards. Qatirna approached, stomping her feet slightly so as to not startle the woman as she announced her presence, and looked at the same wagon wheel before shaking her head softly. She knew a little about carpentry. She didn’t know shit about wagons. 

The Qestir looked hopeful for a moment, then a little disappointed. Her hands gestured to the wagon as if to throw it away, then imitated building a fire. They could use the wagon for scrap. She smiled softly, just enough to see her cheeks perking up beneath her mask. The mage offered a flame on the palm of her hand as if to help, then snuffed it out with a fist as she giggled. The masked grin now showed a little more prominently on the Qestir’s cheeks.

Qatirna’s smile dropped a bit and a nervous expression took its place. She had something she wanted to talk about. Oelun stopped her fidgeting with the wheel and guided the mage to some crates nearby they could comfortably sit on. 

At first Qatirna expressed that she was injured, shyly exposing her horn to the surprisingly unbothered prim and proper woman. She’d seen her own brother break his horns innumerable times. She even offered to wrap the horn for Qatirna, who accepted gratefully. And while Oelun treated the broken horn, softly hushing the mage should she wince or cry out - which at times she did, Qatirna attempted to explain what happened.

Oelun didn’t appear angry, or even judgmental. She seemed relieved that everyone involved came out alive. And in turn that relief flooded Qatirna, who hadn’t known how the Qestir would respond to the story. 

They sat for a time, a strange silent comfort in their shared presence, a gentle warmth radiated between them. Then the Qestir changed the subject. She glanced over shrewdly at the tribeless Xaela and curled a finger around her ring finger, a Western symbol of marriage. They both knew who the Qestir was thinking of, she’d asked about him before. 

Qatirna’s eyes widened in response to the inquiry, the color might have drained from her skin before, but today it brightened, her cheeks warming and adding another shade of pink to her already tawny red skin. She shook her head in short quick movements, with a shy grin as she watched for Oelun’s reaction. There was no new news. No changes in status.

Oelun looked... unamused. Though not necessarily judgmental. She repeated a motion that she made when they *talked* about this before, waving her hand down and back up like a graph and then looking at Qatirna with a knowing expression. She could choose whether or not to stay miserable and locked away in the past, or to let herself be happy.

Qatirna blushed a little more. Oelun was right, but just because she understood that truth didn’t mean she understood how to live it. She reached behind her neck to scratch at the scales beneath her hairline, then shrugged and looked back at Oelun. She mimicked the Qestir’s gesture from before, indicating her ring finger and then giving a pointed look to the pale woman. What about *her*?

In response, the Qestir simultaneously wilted while her porcelain skin burned a shade that almost mimicked Qatirna’s. An uncomfortable topic for both of them.

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Feckless - Q

“AH!” he winced suddenly, grabbing his cheek with strained cautious fingers where an azure scar cut through cerulean skin. The mage startled at his outburst and turned to him with clear worry in her eyes.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he lied. 

“You’re holding the place you got hit with those falling rocks.” She frowned. He was a bad liar. “Did you not see a healer when we got back to Thanalan?”

“I’ve been busy with work.” “Oh Nhaama! I only stopped the bleeding. I’m not a real healer, you know that!” She chastised, though affection could be heard under her scolding tongue. 

He didn’t give her a verbal reply. Instead he dropped his cheek and took her hand with his, giving her a reassuring squeeze. His gaze seemed to focus on the hood covering her horn, and she understood what he was getting at. He somehow never seemed to actively judge her poor decisions. She worried him, that was obvious. She worried most people who cared about her. That’s why she pushed people away. But he never outright told her that her actions were wrong, he never even implied it. He just always asked that she be careful and then let her go and do her own thing. That’s probably how he’d managed to keep her from running for so long.

“Look I saw a healer right after I got these injuries and he said the horn would have to grow back naturally,” she snapped, but her expression quickly dropped, now tender and apologetic. “I will get my horn rewrapped and then I will start wrapping it myself going forward. It just… freaks me out to touch it.”

Her eyes averted his gaze for a moment before looking back with determination. Her free hand moved gently to his scar and a soft blue light illuminated the veins in her arm. The light leaked from her fingers onto his cheek before it quickly seeped into his skin. Her magic would do nearly nothing for the healing process, but it should help dull the pain. She smiled up at him warmly. “After I get my horn taken care of, we’re getting you to a proper healer. Deal with it.” 

[qatirna-can-read]

Petrichor - Q

The sun rose and set three times before the young mage finally blinked open her violet eyes. As if Azim had been keeping his watch over the girl, the clouds parted that morning for the first time since she fell into her coma. After three days of tireless work from the healers in the Circle of Ash, Qatirna woke to the unique smell of clean wet desert sand after an uncharacteristic storm.

“<Mama?>”

Her mother, after shouting her voice raw for two of those turns, had finally been allowed in to sit by her bedside. She didn’t eat, how could she? And she only slept when the intense exhaustion pulled her away from consciousness, bent over in her chair laying her head on the cot right next to her daughter. Khadagan didn’t immediately notice her daughter’s stirring, not until the hand she clasped moved. She looked to the girl’s face with cheeks wetter than the sand outside to find darkened coal black limbal rings surrounding her bright amethyst irises.

“<Oh Nhaama has blessed me,>” she cried, tenderly brushing locks of dark hair away from the girl’s forehead. “<How do you feel, my desert rose? You’re still so warm.>”

Kazagg Chah kept himself busy those three days, but he kept his work near the hut that Qatirna slept in. If something needed his attention further away, he rushed back as soon as he could. He tried to appear unfeeling about the whole thing, but anyone could see his worry. He pushed the young mage as far as she could go. If she woke would determine if he’d pushed her too far. 

A healer ducked out of the hut to find Kazagg Chah pacing the damp earth nearby. “<<She’s awake.>>”

He straightened his posture, nodding briefly to the healer in thanks before pressing into the hut.

“<<Good. You survived. Your training continues when your eyes have regained their color,>>” he said curtly, then immediately turned away and left. Qatirna didn’t feel ready for more, but she knew she would soon. 

[qatirna-can-read]

Devil’s Advocate - O

The opening door let in dusk light to reveal a broken paladin. The Hyur lay stark naked on the dirt floor of a shabby hut, shallow breaths hardly filling his lungs. Ordinarily warm honey skin looked pale and ashen against those open and freely bleeding lesions that covered his body, starting at his neck and reaching down to his ankles. Somehow they had the mercy to leave his face mostly unharmed.

His companions killed the hags who did this. A couple mages, a few more fighters. After weeks of hunting him down they tracked him out to a gods damned bog in the middle of nowhere. They had no idea how it happened, but he got himself kidnapped by witches after a seemingly quick stop at the coliseum where he used to compete. 

The healer knelt down beside him and placed a hand on his chest. Her rosy skin felt so warm on his, cool and clammy. The others stood around, watching but out of the way, as a glowing teal light came from beneath the healer’s palm. Soon those open wounds began to knit closed from the inside out, his breathing stabilized. Other than severe dehydration and not having eaten in several days, his injuries were superficial. He could be carried out and away to their camp and left to rest and recover.

He woke in bedroll in a large tent, his body cleaned up from the dirt and blood, wearing a simple tan robe. The Lalafell mage he travelled with left water for him to find when he got up, which he drank down in a few desperate gulps. He still felt tired, his body still sore, but everything seemed alright. Standing to get a look outside, his companions all sat around a campfire and most of them looked up at him with warm smiles, relieved to see their friend alive and well. 

The Lalafell alchemist looked up at him with a wide excited grin and offered him a plate of food. He reached up to wipe his blond hair from his baby blue eyes before accepting the plate and taking a seat around the fire. His healer, a heavily tattooed Xaela woman with long dark hair, amber eyes, and a bad attitude, refused to look up at him. She finished her meal quickly and stalked off to the edge of camp. 

He shrugged it off and ate and drank and laughed with his friends. He’d talk to her later.

Once most everyone else had gone to bed, not much longer after she left the warmth of the fire, he finally decided to approach her. She’d just been staring off into the expansive dark, drinking from her flask as usual. 

“Hey, we should probably-” His thought was interrupted by a fist greeting his cheek, hard enough to push him back and leave him at least disoriented, but not enough to knock him over.

“YOU ABSOLUTE JACKASS!” She shouted at him with the fury of a woman scorned. Pushing him away by his chest with both hands, she continued to berate him, her tone now slightly hushed. “You selfish! Lying! Bastard! Ass hole! Whoreson!” At each insult she hit him again on his freshly healed chest, though never nearly as hard as that first punch.

“Do you feel better?” He asked with a slight smirk as he rubbed his cheek. 

“No!” she hissed back with a scowl. Then she huffed a quick angry sigh through her nose. “A little.”

“We should probably talk.” He approached again, leaning over her, but not by much. For an Auri woman, Oleta was abnormally tall. “You betrayed my trust, you know.” 

“I did?! Me?! Oh fuck you, Aurelius! You lied to me and I still saved your ass,” she scoffed. “<Sexy useless idiot!>”

“You promised you wouldn’t interfere...”

She cut him off again, “I promised only if you could keep your shit under control and not go crazy!”

“I didn’t. I was still learning and you didn’t even give me the chance.”

“What chance?! You ran off. There was never a chance to give or not give.” Her nostrils flared and her brow furrowed.

“I need you to trust me with something. I need you to promise that you will let me do this without interference.” He put up a single finger before she could interrupt. “Promise me that, and I’ll help you find your sister.”

She eyed him up and down with a disapproving scowl, then let out an acquiescent sigh. “I can give you the same promise I gave you last time. If you can keep it under control, then I won’t interfere. I never broke that first promise.”

He eyed her back suspiciously. “Fine. Deal. Then we’ll find your sister.”

“I appreciate that, Aurelius.” Her entire being from posture to expression to the tone of her voice softened then. “I don’t know why you want to help me, but thank you. Now. Tell me what happened when you were in the South.”

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Destruct - Q

Smoke filled the run down brick building not quite enough to suffocate the patrons, not quite enough to cover the smells of boozey sweat and sex and vomit. Years of neglect left the floors and walls stained with food and drink and even the occasional splash of blood. At least there wasn’t carpet. Smoke discolored the ceiling, but no one could see it through the dim lighting. Although who would come to a place like this and stare at the ceiling with eyes clear enough to see it? It was the kind of place that was so depreciated that the filth covered the grime, making it almost tolerable. 

Everyone there came from wildly different backgrounds as far as race and profession, but they were all there because they had sunk low enough to be there. A shameless disgrace shared among everyone in that building. 

Qatirna had wandered into a group of strangers and wound up sitting on the shoulders of a Xaela nearly twice her height. A drink in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other, she kept her thighs against his horns to keep from losing her balance. 

“So this is what it’s like to be taller than everyone?!” she laughed with dumb intoxicated elation.

“<Hopefully this isn’t the last time your thighs are around my horns tonight,>” he said as imposing hands wrapped around her legs, slowly sliding up her skirts. 

“<You can’t just say things like that!>” she squirmed and squealed in response. Smoke and shadow hid her flushed cheeks, she’d never felt so grateful for something so unpleasant. Still, she had no plans for a room that night. What was the point in spending gil on something she wouldn’t use? She knew before she got to that bar that later she would end up in someone else’s bed.

The Xaela beneath her just laughed, low and husky, as his hands continued trailing up.

[qatirna-can-read]

Friable - O

It’s been five years since I last spoke to my sister, and even longer since I spoke to my parents. Young and in love, I fled a life I did not want to seek a life I could not have. 

But we were happy. 

I don’t regret the time I spent with my wife. I don’t regret traveling and settling further away than even a Haragin ship would sail. I don’t regret helping the rebellion. I don’t regret fighting for freedom. I don’t even regret losing. I only regret two things: that I did not tell Oleta where I went, and that I did not die by my wife’s side.

I have been in this cold metal cage like a trophy animal on display for so many moons I’ve lost track of time. Anyone who would know where I am is dead. Anyone I know who is not dead doesn’t know where I am. So I suppose this is my life now, until my captors finally see fit to end it. A token warning to other rebellions. A reminder of what happens to the beasts when they fight back. 

I miss the sun and fresh air. I miss the moon. I miss the sound of my native tongue. Even the sea, the smell of salt and the freedom to go anywhere on this star, I miss that, too. I miss my wife. Gods, I miss my wife.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sounds of war startle me awake at the same time as they send me into a nightmare. The fighting comes from outside of my line sight, but near enough that I can smell burnt gunpowder, canvas, wood, and flesh. An entire village leveled out of hatred and spite. I taste that memory on my tongue like I'm chewing on the ashes of my fallen loved ones. 

I can't breathe. My heart is racing so hard and fast that I can feel it thrumming in my horns, stinging where my horn broke when I was first captured. I know whatever is out there only means more hell for me. I close my eyes and curl into the smallest space I can, bracing myself silently for whatever comes next.

“Avalyn!”

I hear my name called by a familiar voice and when I look up my sister stands before my cage. She’s older, has more tattoos, but her bright honey eyes greet me. She has the same rosey skin, the same filigree on her horns. She still protects me after all these years.

[qatirna-can-read]

Avatar - Q

The full moon glowed bright but gentle on the desert landscape below. The light and the sand mixed together into a beautiful soft sepia and the shadows cast by craggy cliff sides and towering cacti created a dramatic stylized portrait of Thanalan. 

Qatirna sat near a small fire atop one of those mesas, the rock having turned a deep dark red under the night sky. She watched the moonlight of her mother goddess and the earth of her homeland blend. Mama always told her that she was no less Xaela for her birth or her life lived away from the Azim Steppe. Everywhere she went on this star she would be touched by the light of Nhaama and Azim under the same sky. 

That thought brought her comfort on the nights she needed it the most. On nights like this when she felt the most alone. When she remembered everything she had lost and everything she never had. She would be visiting the Steppe soon. Her first time ever in her motherland. 

The fact that she couldn’t share this with her parents stung like a thousand cactuar needles in her chest. The fact that she knew no one from their tribes. The fact that she would never meet anyone from her mother’s tribe, and she didn’t think she would ever meet anyone from her father’s tribe either. She worried that she didn’t even belong. Anywhere really. Can you return to a home you’ve never been to?

But Nhaama’s light graced her bare shoulders, and would continue to in Thanalan or the Steppe or in fucking Ishgard. And in Nhaama’s arms her parents watched over her. Maybe she didn’t belong anywhere in particular, but she belonged. Anywhere below the sky she belonged. 

[qatirna-can-read]

Foster - Q

Summer came and went and came again before I once again stepped foot in my desert. Sand in my shoes and the burning sun beating down on my face, it felt bittersweet. The landscape had changed. Most of what little vegetation existed was now gone. It hurt, to look at my home and see a wasteland, it stung in my heart. But I was pleasantly surprised to find the returning grasses and brush slowly reclaiming the land, and those burning red mesas still stood tall and proud around the little house I built and rebuilt with my mother - with some help from other locals.

Speaking of my house. That exploding moon had rained down and destroyed just about everything it could in Thanalan, my home was no exception. The main floor was all but gone, but somehow the basement was mostly intact. I could work with this. 

My father’s mare was getting old. I owed it to her to give her some comfort in her golden years. I would rebuild; cultivate the land. I would make somewhere that Koko could drink from a freshwater pond and eat apples directly off the trees. I think she would like that. I think my parents - if they could watch me from Nhaama’s arms when the moon shone bright in the desert sky - I think they would be proud.

[qatirna-can-read]

Scale - O

The islander woman with wild frizzy salt and pepper hair silently worked the needle in and out of the Haragin’s skin masterfully. One hand held onto her rosey thigh, pulling the skin taut while also supporting her other hand, the one rapidly piercing at a keen angle with pigment and a sharp fish bone. 

Oleta leaned back in her seat, propped up on her elbows, with a half empty flask in hand. She kept her leg perfectly still, her eyes closed peacefully, but her jaw clenched. After so many bells, the pain started getting to her.

A long serpentine tail now wrapped around her thigh, intricately weaving between the scales on her skin with its green and gold snake skin. A handsome face and torso came from that long lamian body. The long flowing hair cascading down her shoulders were made of coiling and hissing and fang bearing snakes. A monster, and a woman, beautiful and hideous. 

The islander told her the story of the woman she designed on Oleta’s thigh. Men interpreted the story as a curse, women saw her story as a blessing. Perfect. In a way, this was just one more tattoo representing luck. A curse to some, but a blessing to her.

[qatirna-can-read]

It’s Not Murder if They Deserve It - O

Heavy Trigger Warning for Violence, Abuse, and Sexual Assault. 

Not a moon passed since Oleta reached her fourteenth nameday and she’d been working under this man for less time than that. She knew him before now, he was part of the crew, but up until this point she had gone out of her way to avoid him whenever possible. In all honesty, the behemoth of a Haragin scared her. He stood well over three fulms taller than her, his body wrapped in muscles as much as scars. A mean drunk - who was always drunk - the ship’s carpenter agreed to teach Oleta his trade as long as she did “<what that little cunt is focken told.>” That her mother and father not only sanctioned, but actually arranged this, was truly a testament to their parenting.

Oleta was motivated, driven. One day she would have her own ship. One day she would captain her own crew. She knew every place on that vessel, every part and piece to keep it running. She knew every role, each crew member, what they did and why. Now she just had to learn how to run it. After a few moons she could take another job, she just had to grin and bear it until then.

For weeks now Oleta received frequent beatings for mistakes real or imagined. If the shipwright was unsatisfied with his ale, she’d get a backhand to the jaw. If she drilled a hole in the wrong part of the wood, she’d get a blackeye. That mistake she wouldn’t repeat. Tonight she didn’t even know what mistake he accused her of, he was too angry and incoherent for her to understand. In the hold he roared at her violently while she stared at him, mouth agape, confused and nearly as furious. 

“<Don’t you look at me like that you little slut!>” he shouted as he slapped her hard enough to knock her to the floor. Only a moment passed before she glared back up at the shipwright, shooting daggers with aurelian eyes. Fuck this. Wiping the blood from the corner of her mouth she stood defiantly. With a puffed chest and a scowl she spit in the man’s face, pink flecks speckling his leathery skin and scales. He responded to her slight with a heavy punch to the gut, doubling her over and back to the ground.

She knelt on the floor, her forehead nearly touching the grimy wet wood. She couldn’t breathe. Silent ineffective gasps dragged her heaving chest up and down in an attempt to catch air in her lungs once more. Before her throat had the chance to open again, he kicked her hard. A thump and a cracking sound came from her ribs as she fell to her other side.

He watched with a sinister smirk as she writhed on the dirty ship floor. One arm wrapped around her side where he’d kicked her. Her other hand slapped at the wall limply as pathetic croaking sounds broke through her throat. At least a minute passed before a desperate choked inhale finally graced her lungs. She coughed and sputtered on the floor, finally catching her breath while he laughed.

Pressing her body against the wall, she used the leverage to pull herself back up to standing. Her arm still wrapped below her sternum. She raised a fist and lunged for the man with a frenzied scream. He easily interrupted her attack, grabbing her by the upper arm and pinning her back against the wall. He roughly took her by the wrist protecting her ribs and pinned that arm to the wall as well. He pressed his entire body against her, putting pressure on that broken bone. A sobbed howl escaped her throat and she looked away.

“<I see you need a lesson on respect, whore bitch.>” His grasp still tight, he dragged his hand from her bicep to her wrist, tugging both her arms harshly up and together. He could hold her there with just one hand now. His free hand grabbed her jaw, pulling her gaze back up to his. Despite tears in her eyes, she still scowled at him with insolent fury. He still wore that sinister smirk as he bent down, forcefully licking from her collarbone to her chin. His breath smelled of pungent acrid ale. Now trembling, she pulled her head away in disgust but his hand on her jaw held her face forward. 

Her indignant golden eyes locked with his cruel bemused greys. Once again she spat in his face. He growled as he kneed her in the stomach and she cried out in pain. She began thrashing, screaming, shrieking at the top of her lungs. If she couldn’t get out herself, maybe someone would come? That’s when he clamped his free hand down over her mouth.

“If you make one more sound you filthy cunt, I’ll do the same to little Avalyn.” Her sister hadn’t yet reached her twelfth summer. Oleta’s eyes went wide and pleading and terrified. She just shook her head quietly and acquiesced.

She cried silently the whole time as he grunted on top of her. When he was finally done he stood up, buttoned his trousers, and walked off without so much as a second glance her way. She laid curled up on the floor of the hold, shivering, bruised, revolted. No one but Avalyn asked about where she was when she didn’t rise with the rest of the crew at the crack of dawn.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning Oleta woke in pain and confusion. The bruise that formed on her side during the night was massive. A deep purple spanned almost the entire length of her torso, blackened near the point of the break. Beyond her obvious physical injuries her entire body felt wrong. Like it no longer belonged to her. Like it was nothing more than a sick puppet of broken flesh and bones that she had the misfortune of living in.

She pulled herself up to hands and knees just as a sudden sour rush of saliva overwhelmed her mouth. Her face twisted and she expelled what little stomach contents that remained from the day before. That convulsing of her body made her muscles tighten against her ribs and she released a heavy sob in agony. 

For most of the morning she stayed in the hold from the shock and the pain and the exhaustion, fading in and out of consciousness for several bells. By the afternoon, despite still being in immense pain and still being exhausted, dehydrated, and hungry, she stayed hidden away in the hold out of shame. 

Just before sundown she gathered enough stubborn will to survive to pull herself off the ground. With the walls as her crutches she slowly made her way out of the hold for the first time in more than a sun. Rounding a corner she came face to face with a woman who looked quite similar to Oleta. She was older, and far more covered in tattoos, but she had similar rose colored skin and soot black hair. 

“<Been lookin’ for you all day, girl.>” she scolded, then realizing her daughter was injured followed up with. “<Let’s get you to the surgeon.>” She began hooking her arm under Oleta’s to help support her weight.

“<Fuck off, Mum!>” She flailed to keep her mother away but the movement of her arms made her recoil from the pain in her chest. Her mother just sighed and continued the motion to hold up her daughter, helping her get to the surgeon where he could look her over. Her mother dropped her off and left, she had work to do.

Oleta lied about how she got her injuries, and she only let him examine her upper body. Made up some shit about pulling too much lumber at once and it crashing onto her torso. The surgeon almost believed her and patched her up without further questions, leaving her to rest on a cot. The break wasn’t life threatening, but they didn’t have any magical healers on board. She would have to heal the old fashioned way - with time.

She refused to go back to work for the shipwright, at least until her ribs healed, she promised. So her assigned position changed to working in the kitchen under a kind Dazkar man who had married into the Haragin crew. 

Slowly she healed, regaining her strength, her drive. The Dazkar she worked under helped. He was gentle with her, and patient. Mistakes were minor and easily rectified. Accomplishments were praised. He started her on easy tasks, things she could take care of while healing - chopping or tending pots on the stove, he taught her how to brew beer and wine. As she regained her strength she could help with lifting heavy bags and boxes. Eventually she even learned to slaughter the chickens and pigs they kept alive on the ship for meat. At the time she didn’t yet realize that she was practicing for more than just butchering as she honed the skill of sharply pulling a blade across the arteries of an animal’s throat.

Oleta began feeling like herself again, despite the carpenter still sharing the same ship. Her anger never faded, but her revulsion did some. At least her revulsion with herself. Something that continued weighing on her though, was how he threatened Avalyn. The young girl was more sensitive than her elder sister, softer and gentler and not at all interested in the harsh lifestyle of piracy. Oleta protected her fiercely. The only thing that made this situation different was the gravity. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two moons passed without much conflict. Oleta felt physically better at least, but as her physical pain diminished her fury grew. She kept her eye out for the shipwright at all times, waiting for a night when he let his guard down. A night when he found himself drunk and alone. 

The new moon provided no light to the darkened deck and in the still night almost none of the crew remained above the sleeping quarters. As per usual, the carpenter stayed on deck, drinking and watching the dark ocean under the night sky. 

Oleta stole two carving knives from the kitchen. She was amateur, but after a life on a ship she was also strong. She knew every place the boards creaked, knew every obstacle, every hidden corner, every break in the hull. She crept up to the deck. He was alone. Silently she glided up behind him, a phantom of his sins. She pulled out the first knife. With careful and purposeful aim she pulled her fist up to slam the blade into his back, right next to his spine, just managing to puncture the lung. 

A gurgled choke of surprise and pain sputtered from his mouth and he gripped his chest, reeling about to get a look at his attacker. A light trickle of blood bubbled to his mouth and his eyes widened in recognition and rage. 

“<Why you little -- >" The second knife interrupted his rasped threat as Oleta quickly but crudely dragged the blade across his windpipe, slicing through him like an apple. She knew to tug that sharp edge through the cartilage on the side of his neck to burst the artery. A torrent of crimson spilled from the wound accompanied by the wet strangled sounds of desperation. She spit in his face once more and pushed him back, over the ledge and into the black waters below. 

She stood at the railing for what felt like a lifetime, but was probably only a half a bell, watching as he splashed and flailed in his salty wet crypt. She watched as he fell out of sight, whether from his inevitable sink or from the ship sailing away too far - she wasn’t sure. She watched the merciless sea take the shipwright to his grave and continued after he was certainly gone.

Oleta reluctantly turned away from the deep dark waters of her willing accomplice to clean up in the kitchen. She washed the blood from her body and the remaining carving knife she held, as if performing a ritual. A sacred ceremony for retribution. She left that blood stain on the deck. She wanted that reminder.

In the dead of night she slid through corridors to the hammock where Avalyn slept and crawled in with her younger sister, holding on with tenderness she would never express for anyone else. For the first time in nearly three moons she slept soundly, her only regret was that he got off so easy. A burial at sea was too good for him.

[qatirna-can-read]

The Calamity - Q

Memory lapses were common for the survivors of the Calamity. For Qatirna her memories either came in flashing waves or in nightmares. Little glimpses - like a light bulb flickering in a thunderstorm - she could see people running, hear their screams, smell burnt flesh and kicked up dirt. A few larger memories still existed, like holding onto her lover as a magical barrier protected them from an oncoming chunk of moon, the taste and feel of sand and blood in her mouth.

What still haunted her though, asleep or awake, were the days spent right after. Qatirna and all the other survivors sifting through the rubble. At first, they prayed together to find their living loved ones, but within hours all they hoped to find was closure. Everyday she would dig until her hands bled, until Petra pulled her away crying and screaming because she just needed to fucking sleep. Every morning she would rise with the sun to return to that destroyed bunker with the rest of the barely living.

After three days she finally found her mother’s shawl. That didn’t mean much, she could have given it to someone as an offer of comfort, that kind of thing was in Khadagan’s nature. Still, this is where Qatirna focused her efforts. Two more suns before she removed a stone to find a familiar tiny crumpled hand with red skin and ebony claws. Five days after the end of the world Qatirna lost her light.

[qatirna-can-read]

This is my first time *ever* writing music so please be gentle. I’m still not sure how I feel about the lyrics, but that’s the cool thing about lullabies. They can easily be re-written to add new verses.

I wrote this as a lullaby that Qatirna’s father used to sing to her before he passed. Her mother taught it to her and she still sings it to herself a lot.

This is meant to be an Old Auri lullaby, meaning any Xaela may recognize it. Or even have their own version with different lyrics more specific to their own tribe.