her brood follow obediently behind her. rambunctious, even feral, bickering amongst themselves and squawking like beasts, but always obediently. the muradoii queen would tolerate nothing less—the calves knew this the moment that their legs began to operate correctly, ears could hear her growls and bodies could feel the nip of warning teeth.
her niece is no longer with her. her mate exiled, and too exiled by sivaak. traitor lanzadoii, and her chance at renewal as muradoii gone. sivaak knew not where suliya, talvani, went—but she was weak again in her mind. very much like sivaak’s rancid, weak sister. she had been proven right.
she goes to the sea. she hears in the wind, whispers. she tastes on the wind, salt. it is not her black sea, it will never be her black sea, but it is the sea; and that is enough. carrion queen herds muradoii calves to the sands, so they will feel it beneath their paws. they might taste it upon their tongue. the lanzadoii boy is not in attendance; sivaak would bestow him these lessons, but that was not for her to decide.lanzadoii and muradoii existed in odd, unusual symbiosis now. but still: lanzadoii and muradoii.
ts’okhun wanders and she snatches the boy by the scruff and hauls him violently back to where his sisters gather before crashing waves. sivaak stands before calves and sees each their crimson eyes.
listen well. the sea is not just water; it is the breath of our ancestors, the cradle of our beginnings. before our people walked the land, we swam in the depths, guided by the spirits of the waves. in our rituals, we give the sea our finest catch, be that fox, bear, wolf. this is our way.
you will not whine. you will not plead. if your leg breaks, you crawl. if your brother falls behind, you do not wait. if your sister dies, she becomes sustenance for the sea, not the ground. you carry only the strong. the weak rot.
April 18, 2025, 01:27 PM
The sea.
It is endless and cold, sprawling out infinitely, shooting waves upon exhales like the watery lungs of a great iron beast. Winds off the crashes are sharp and salted; odd and rotting. Yakona lips at the mix of brine and sand on Ts’okhun’s maw while tiny paws stumble into mother’s grand imprints. Her eyes are wide and in them dances the reflection of the vast, steel ocean. Instinct commands her wariness, but her small, wild heart knows what the mind does not— that the sea is their birthright.
The cub shakes her paw, the peculiarity of sand inciting a desire for play, but as soon as Sivaak’s voice rolls like thunder she is attentive, throwing her head high to peer into the selfsame eyes.
The day is gray but Sivaak is a flame on an altar, lit from within, still before the violent seaside. She makes her unknown sounds cut the wind. She rules with the gaze of a single look. The girl stands, watching her mother with a sacred ache— a longing not for love, but to be worthy of it; to walk in her footsteps. To earn even a shadow of her strength. And Yakona knows what she is hearing now is the voice of a god.
For who else is a god, if not the one who makes you, shapes you, teaches you to endure?
It is endless and cold, sprawling out infinitely, shooting waves upon exhales like the watery lungs of a great iron beast. Winds off the crashes are sharp and salted; odd and rotting. Yakona lips at the mix of brine and sand on Ts’okhun’s maw while tiny paws stumble into mother’s grand imprints. Her eyes are wide and in them dances the reflection of the vast, steel ocean. Instinct commands her wariness, but her small, wild heart knows what the mind does not— that the sea is their birthright.
The cub shakes her paw, the peculiarity of sand inciting a desire for play, but as soon as Sivaak’s voice rolls like thunder she is attentive, throwing her head high to peer into the selfsame eyes.
The day is gray but Sivaak is a flame on an altar, lit from within, still before the violent seaside. She makes her unknown sounds cut the wind. She rules with the gaze of a single look. The girl stands, watching her mother with a sacred ache— a longing not for love, but to be worthy of it; to walk in her footsteps. To earn even a shadow of her strength. And Yakona knows what she is hearing now is the voice of a god.
For who else is a god, if not the one who makes you, shapes you, teaches you to endure?
April 18, 2025, 06:34 PM
ts'okhun felt the pull of his mother’s grip on the scruff of his neck, his tiny body lifted and tossed back into place with a violent snap, yet his tiny limbs moved quickly. his paws churned the sand as his sisters bickered and ran around the crashing waves. the air was thick with salt and history—he could taste it on the wind, the same breath that had filled the lungs of those before them. he didn’t understand fully what she said, but the meaning was clear: strength, survival, and blood that ran deep like the sea. he could feel the weight of her gaze, her command to listen, even if the words were lost on him.
the sea, the waves, it was a part of him, even at this young age, as it was for every muradoii born. there was an ancient connection there, a bond between them and the water, the same way there was between their mother and the land. the sea was not a place of comfort; it was a place of power, of taking what you needed, and leaving nothing behind.
ts'okhun crouched low to the sand, ears twitching, absorbing the roar of the waves, the rhythm of it. something primal stirred within him, a call he would one day answer. for now, he merely watched, a small form among the larger, older ones.
the sea, the waves, it was a part of him, even at this young age, as it was for every muradoii born. there was an ancient connection there, a bond between them and the water, the same way there was between their mother and the land. the sea was not a place of comfort; it was a place of power, of taking what you needed, and leaving nothing behind.
ts'okhun crouched low to the sand, ears twitching, absorbing the roar of the waves, the rhythm of it. something primal stirred within him, a call he would one day answer. for now, he merely watched, a small form among the larger, older ones.
only speaks muradoii
Cetseni tumbles down the slope, unserious as it was permissible to be, returning the bites and bumps of her siblings, playful and eager to make use of her legs, especially curious to how the sand seemed to hinder her movement. She touches a paw to the sand and scoops what she can to investigate, the particles sift throw the cracks of her paws. When mother's voice cuts through the air, she lines up with Ts'okun and Yakona, nestled between the two.
If once mother was god, Cetseni had found something higher. Understood as soon as she breathed the seasalt air, the cold breeze brought in with a deep inhale, a connection is found in the thunderous crashing of the waves, relentless in their barrage of the sand, of eachother, if the souls of ancestors broiled beneath the churning waves, they demanded strength even in death.
But for now, her attention came back to beacon of strength she had in life. Ghost pale, dark eyes same as them all. Red as sister's blood. Was she in the waves too? What was to be of the weak?
They rot. If any of the lecture was understood, it was that. Red stare stays stone still, little ears tune to the sea. She would not show it, but a part of her she cannot control hopes, wishes, that all three of them can keep up. Does the sea listen to her thoughts?
To stand at coast edge and let seabreeze ruffle the raven fur of her neck was, if anything, inspiring. Daughter's eyes find mothers again, attentive, a new curiosity taken root. Small hawk wishes for more. She is greedy, hungry.
If once mother was god, Cetseni had found something higher. Understood as soon as she breathed the seasalt air, the cold breeze brought in with a deep inhale, a connection is found in the thunderous crashing of the waves, relentless in their barrage of the sand, of eachother, if the souls of ancestors broiled beneath the churning waves, they demanded strength even in death.
But for now, her attention came back to beacon of strength she had in life. Ghost pale, dark eyes same as them all. Red as sister's blood. Was she in the waves too? What was to be of the weak?
They rot. If any of the lecture was understood, it was that. Red stare stays stone still, little ears tune to the sea. She would not show it, but a part of her she cannot control hopes, wishes, that all three of them can keep up. Does the sea listen to her thoughts?
To stand at coast edge and let seabreeze ruffle the raven fur of her neck was, if anything, inspiring. Daughter's eyes find mothers again, attentive, a new curiosity taken root. Small hawk wishes for more. She is greedy, hungry.
April 22, 2025, 09:55 PM
— the calves fall quiet beneath her gaze. it is the power of their mother. it is the obedience she has reared into them.
they are born of her flesh, suckled at her blood. now they will learn to kneel not to gods in sky nor fathers on thrones, but to the black mouth of the sea.
their fur is buffeted by the same storm she once stood beneath as a girl, trembling. their mother grins down with blood-stained bridgework. her voice rises again, louder, so that the waves must bend to hear it.
we are muradoii. the sea hunts with us. it kills with us. muradoii do not fear death. we offer it.
their mother sits. feeling the crash of wave in the distance, the sea salt flung upon her fur once more after months of roaming valley and taiga.
in the everdark, when sun did not rise and the black sea froze so thick even spirits could not pass through, our foremothers built fire with bone.
they say we are monsters. blood-drinkers. baby-killers. good. let them. we are not meant to be loved.
they buried the first matron of muradoii beneath the black sea. she killed her husband, took his blood, and carved a shrine of his ribs. the sea remembers her name. every time you bleed into the tide, she hears you.
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