Lion Head Mesa Mom come pick me up I'm scared

Mainly for @Zaahira, but open to all akashingo leadership. Lingering on/around the borders. She'll mellow out as thread progresses. obvs no need to match length

Mature Content Warning

This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.

The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Mental unwellness, mention of self-harm

Something profound was haunting the shadow of the grass-snake of a wolf called Worm, who called itself Worm in turn. 

It was swamped with bottomless fear, the shakiness of its limbs writing a testimony of its uncertainty for all to see—were it not dreadfully silent out here along the spine of a painted mesa. It was comfortable, on its own, carried by an unshakeable confidence that led it to believe it was untouchable every other time it ventured off on an assignment... But this sort of solitude was entirely different. It was not given or ordered, but taken instead, and an all-consuming anxiety crept up the spine of the vermin servant. 

Worm had been greedy and disgusting and selfish. It had spat in the faces of the Pure and in the face of their love because of one silly little break. One lapse, one breath taken that was not by the worm but by Worm herself. She was all It was trained not to be, and yet the two were never fully seperate. She decided she did not want to die there. Call it some profound realization, or the result of impulsivity, the choice had been made.—And It, borne of servitude and fractured from a sense of self, was dragged along with her, kicking and thrashing and plagued by fear of retribution. She had hardly known fear before, and so this was her first proper tango with it, standing here, on the cusp of the unknown. Before, there had only ever been resignation, acknowledgement, empty, languishing permissiveness... Fear only ever made things worse and so she tried to squash it. 

Worm had been gone a couple months now, and spent the time running until the pads of her paws were worn to raw, bloodied, skin. Sure, this was 'freedom' in one sense of the word, but she realized quickly that she did not know what to do with herself out here, alone. Well, being a blank canvas was better than being a worm. Out here, she decided than she was no longer theirs, or the, or a. She was Worm. She and It both regained a stolen piece of personhood the day they chose to run away, but grasping onto it was harder than it sounded. Part of this ownership was invigorating and the other part was so deeply guilty at the trespass.

If she could find refuge, find sanctuary, perhaps she could be spared more inner turmoil. All the facets of her still required love and affirmation, they still required purpose, but she had made her choice, as reckless and spontaneous as it was, and now she had to lie with the consequences it had dragged in the door. 

But what had spurred a moment of courageous detachment was absent now, and in its wake, only fragility remained. 'It' reared its head and 'she' was stifled. This was a problem, because the essence of one was twined with fear and submission and an ability to be what others needed it to be, and the other was made of thread that weaved rebellion and self-preservation of a different kind. They clashed and they tumbled down the scape of its-her mind. Nobody could take the reigns when both were at war. 

- Worm is stupid! Worm is an idiot for this! Worm will be flayed and set to roast in the sun, and Worm will deserve it!  It begged and pleaded with Her to turn around, accept this ending in all its violent, deserved glory. 

But there was no glory in death, especially not one submitted to. Any death back that way was one submitted to, now that she had taken these steps. She was done being disposable. She wanted to be pure, and her own and there was no way to be such a thing behind her. Worm shook her head and wiped at her muzzle with her paws—looking much like a rabid fox in the midst of an episode. In her mind, she warred against the worm and its conditioned desire to go home. Its desperate nature that sought for some absolution in the punishment it knew it deserved. 

- Worm has been terrible. Worm must go and be crushed like a bug. She would be forgiven if she was crushed—if not by the pure ones than by God. We have a god, do we not? It will forgive us. 

-- Stupid! There is no forgiveness backwards! None none none! We do not like it when we are hurt, that is why we are out here in the first place! Use your brain! Or do I have to knock sense into it?! God would not spare you the time. You do not even know him and he has forgotten about you. 

Worm was so torn between condition and this newfound taste on her tongue, between its desires and her own, as if they were not woven of the same tapestry. Harmony was absent and it was like the world was ending, caving in on her as she paced and muttered under her breath. The air grew to choke her and she'd crumble to her knees, jaws chattering and her head reeling, she shook herself and resorted to hitting her head on rocks and wiping her paws over her nape and face—trying to force a reset. Make It go away. 

It had no place telling her what to do, not anymore. It protected them when they were home but here and now it would be their collective detriment. She would let It take over if it needed to, and right now, it did not need to!  What It needed to do was go away and let Her take the reigns. Venom always worked, and so she would inject the slow pangs of poison into her bloodstream to paralyze it. 

-- That god would not accept us, he never has and we do not owe it to him to grovel or to offer him ourself. He is not ours, he belongs to the pure and the pure only. There is no god for worms, and there is no choice but the path ahead now. I will lead us. You will shut up.           

----

An hours-long dance would ensue, and one that made her near black out until the rising sun had replaced the sky full of stars. The time raced forward and it left them behind, locked in argument.

It would quiet to a whisper as a silent agreement was struck, and would leave the huntress alone in blissful silence, though not after a tiring battle that left her disoriented and with more scrapes than she started out with. A leak of vermin's blood poured from the tip of her crown and she would do naught but take a deep breath and rise to sit on her haunches rather than her stomach. Free from battle, it was only now that she'd realize how far and absently she'd wandered, the smell of other wolves permeated the air of this place and she knew she'd have to scramble quickly to get away, yet the pounding in her head made her dizzy and weary, and so she'd stumble around in place a couple paces, trying to re-orient herself. 

zaahira returned to akashingo posthaste following the burgeoning of her season. her pedestal had been abandoned for far too long, and all the while, the palace gained nothing. the primitives spat in the face of the kingdom, and by the time she reached the third or fourth day of her heat, she wanted nothing more than to see the grand, eroded face of the mesa with evening light cascading off of its sharp edges.
she returned just in time to wash the remnants of womanhood from her. she spent her first few nights recuperating, blanketed by fellahin who she only asked to watch the doorway for her while she bathed, ate, drank. and, at last, she returned to her beloved patrol-paths with newly sharpened kohl.
this first night-march was one spent alone, as she wished to reacquaint herself with the divine touch of cool evening, to wade close to the serpent and drink from its clear waters again. crickets hum from the safety of the sagebrush; the stars cast a glow over the sands which paints everything a serene indigo. all is quiet. all is well.
until she hears footsteps; approaching from outside akashingo's claim.
zaahira stiffens, muscles rippling beneath her skin as she rounds upon the sound immediately, ears cupped forward. what greets her at the end of the trail is a bizarrely shaped, shadow-woven huntress, seemingly aimless in her wandering.
stop, she calls out, a formidable bite to her even tone. do you know where you are?

Worm lurches at the sound of another voice, this one is certainly not her own or within her head, as it pierces through the air, commanding and firm. Her voice could never hope to be such a thing, and so the difference is clear. Reeling around, the vermin comes face to face with a jackal-like woman, clad in hues of dusk and hearthflame, and she halts her pace—frozen, not out of fear, but out of habit, she had issued a command, after all. 

This woman had sharp, pointed ears and regal makeup that still beheld the feint scent of the berries that had been crushed to serve beauty. This woman and her scent were doubtedly, and irrevocably foreign to the eyes of the shadowed creature. 

She struggled to focus a moment, lost in this image and frozen to the spot, ready to address her betters. Situational awareness would kick back in, and she would drop her gaze, and then her body, kneeling in an appeasing bow, wiry tail tucked between her legs, as she was taught to do when she'd committed an error. ..I do not! This one is sorry for any trespass... I wandered here in the night.. I'm a little lost.. I can make it up to you! Worm will do whatever you require for your forgiveness.. 

She states firmly, not looking back up once. She would get out of trouble somehow, and here stood an opportunity to do more than just clear herself. Perhaps she could even worm her way into a comfortable bed with a hot meal. She'd stayed alive this long, and it was a testament to her dedication.

the girl — worm? — immediately bombards her with a slough of apologies. regardless of her apparent harmlessness, the jodai's suspicion does not lessen. was she sent here? was she acting so strangely on purpose?
relax. you speak to zaahira, jodai and fan-bearer to pharaoh muat-riya isetnofret toula, the obligatory offering of titles rolls serpentine from her tongue. ah, to say them on her own turf for the first time in many weeks! you are... worm? and you say you have come here on accident?

The stranger quickly introduces herself as Zaahira, and strings along a series of words that Worm lacked the understanding for, the way they fell so effortlessly from her tongue had the vermin wondering if she had heard any of that correctly, and she stood simply stunned for a moment as she tried to comprehend. And here she had considered herself on the smarter end of things.

But it was to be expected. Foreign lands, foreign customs.

Worm sees the scrutiny in her gaze as she has seen scrutiny a thousand times before. This time at least it was reasonably warranted. But it did not deter her. Raising her head, she dares to look directly into wildfire eyes. She'd come to learn that you were believed easier, if your gaze did not waver—though hers was rather intense, wide-eyed and all-consuming.

Yes! This one is Worm. She'd affirm without a moment spared for the obvious confusion in the other's eyes. ::I am.... a traveller! Your lands, they look beautiful! Remind me of home, in good ways. This one's mind was foggy, I paid no attention see? I only slept some of the night in a little crevice, do not worry, I did not take from you.

She lowers her head to dip it politely. This woman spoke of titles, and claimed ownership over this land, evident by the question of 'do you know where you are?'. Worm did not, but she had an inkling that this land must've belonged to those of importance. That part of her which bathed in fear and yearned for absolution tickled the back of her neck and shared its thoughts. 

There was something to be gained, here, spurred by self-preservation, or perhaps her usual wishful thinking. For the first time since her spontaneous choice to run, Worm had begun to craft a goal. That of building a new life.

This place belongs to your pack, yes? Dreadfully sorry! But perhaps.. even accidents can bring good things?:: She levied a hopeful query, maintaining a demure body language, so as to not appear as anything other than respectful. 

Everything happened for a reason, and though Worm had never felt the touch of god, nor heard his voice, this lesson had remained firm in her mind.

it seemed as though this girl was innocent, if not a little bit... ignorant. maybe ignorant was not the right word — primitive. perhaps not even from the area. but this was her land, and here she could not be glowered at as if she were an imbecile whose flowery language was meaningless.
silently she assesses the girl whose name was worm, listening to her little story as she studies her. she is on the frail end, most certainly underfed and desperately in need of a bath, but these were easy enough to fix. zaahira had been the same way when she had first arrived. in fact, worm reminded her rather strikingly of her former self in a lot of ways.
perhaps that was why she now considered throwing her a bone.
you stand on the soil of akashingo. we are a plentiful land with much to offer. beneath that mesa, she accompanies her words with a gesture of a toned forelimb, is anything and everything you could ever dream of, touched truly by the Gods.
one brow quirks; less interrogative and more inquisitive, a serpentine half-smirk coiling at the corner of her lip. but what can you offer akashingo, worm?

Worm looks down to the afforementioned soil, and then back up to Zaahira; her many titles a jumbled mess in the vermin's mind. A plentiful land, everything one could dream of, touched by 'the gods?'—wait, there were more of them? Worm found herself hopeful, and a different sort of hopeful, this wasn't a facade finely crafted to quell the loss of sanity, this was not a desperate attempt to convince herself, No—this was a real, tangible sort of hope. 

She'd long since abandoned divinity, the pursuit of impressing a god who was blind and deaf to those who fell outside of the pure-blood Carres wolves. No, he had dictated that her kind must suffer and toil in service for their impurity, for their filthy blood; and no share of exceptional talent nor undying loyalty would've gained her a place among his people. Not even death in their name was enough to deliver one stained with the mark of vermin.

She was not meant to be among those people. But her own were still subjuagted. Her own still offered tithes of children and of goods, hell, her own would not have seen her as theirs at all, she'd been gone away too long. Nobody would vouch for their wayward daughter, offered to spare the rest such a fate. No, fear still ruled them and she had gotten her fair share.

So where did Worm belong? Stripped of identity in all facets, where would she go? What would she do? She'd asked herself such questions over and over and over while she walked until her paws were cracked and slicked with callous and blood. Yet here, standing on this soil, a woman extended a hand to her; albeit, locked behind a test of skill, but an extension of good will all the same. She offered an answer to those questions that wracked her so, those questions that tore her in two.

 If this land was inhabited by gods, Worm only saw one afront her, reaching out. 

None had ever done such a thing before and so she stammers a moment, lifting herself up and crooking her head to the side a moment, and then back up to face her properly. ..This one is a good fighter. Good at fooling. Good at stealing. This one can kill and has no qualms. Whatever Akashingo needs, Worm can be. She says firmly, and dips her head.

stealing, lying, killing. zaahira's interest in the girl only grows, her eyes lightening. whatever we need, yes?
her next words are carefully chosen. we need soldiers. with such important people within our halls to protect, we have high standards for our security personnel. we want wolves who will get themselves dirty. wolves who know their own strengths and weaknesses. wolves who will bleed. and if your truth is as you say it is, she gestures now for the girl to straighten. then you will be one of them. mazoi.
she turns toward the coolness of the mesa's shadow, whispering a request to a passing fellahin to prepare refreshments near the wellspring. the sweeping grandeur of the underground passages swallow the pair into warm filtered light which shimmers off of the sandstone.
your first lesson as mazoi is that you will do exactly as i say, when i say it. no questions asked. if i say to you, 'off with the head', your only response should be sinking your teeth into flesh. hal tafhama? they pass by the mazoi barracks, and zaahira feels a tug of reminiscence, expression sinking slightly into something unreadable. you have your choice of room. they are simple, but they are warm and private. and i can promise you it is better than anywhere else.
enjoy your look around, because we are not staying here for long, she leans coolly against the entryway. you need a bath.

Worm trails after her, all the way to her home. 

She could bleed. She'd done it before, but this was different. There was something more here than a game to be played with their lessers. Here she could be soldier, and not vermin, that promotion alone was enough to cement her stay. And she got her own room? Never before seen! Meager as it may have been to esteemed eyes, Worm was simply reveling in the glory of this place. A dirty moss bed in the back of a cavern was as good as gold, and even these quarters were far better off. 

Worm could get dirty. (Worm was dirty already, in fact!) She straightened as an amber gaze commanded it, pointed ears angled up. Understood. She affirms with a nod. She could take orders, it was all she had been groomed to do, and so there would be no problems there. There was not much room for the weight of the task to be considered, only the completion of it. Off with the head. 

On their way around, she had stolen the occasional glance here and there, eyeing the others in a quick manner, not daring to make eye contact. She kept herself small, unseen, unremarkable. She stood in the shadow of the commander, ogled this golden place, and broke the militaristic stillness she maintained as she was looked over. It will be done! I will bathe!! She obeys, and rises to follow her to whereever they kept water unimportant enough for her bloodied scrapes and mud-stained feet. ...Do you give me commands alone? Or am I to be commanded by the others, as well? she asks quietly, it was worth knowing. Homeward, she was at the disposal of all who bore blood purer than her own. She did not know the value of blood or culture here.