Chimera Fields crawl

she crossed the slough, which took several days and left her a mess.

this petered out to grassland; the plains now littered with spring flowers, her muddy sides became home to pollen and grass seed, among other things netted there. there was the subtle pang of hunger in her belly which zharille determined could be ignored for another day or two.

the air grew heavier with salt. the rain eased off as she came in range of a plateau, but the myriad of scents there deterred her. she thought of calling out to them—whoever had chosen this seaside place as their claim—but she had seen seawolves in her travels.

they were small, thin, and quick. they were scavengers, or they fished the edge of the world and fought against bears for their food, and they often lost. no; these were not the kind of men she wanted.

a detour took her through another forest and as she found her way to the rocky eaves of a quarry, the hunger that had begun nesting in her gut grew to something dangerous. zharille was agitated; more-so that she had to put aside one hunt for another. but it must be done.

as the giantess moved in to the (chimera) fields beyond, her focus shifted fully to any signs of prey.

prey is not what the giantess would find. not for now.

having taken another chance to explore the wilds beyond the palace suring the expedition, racharra finds one more fragment of her past. and her heart sinks to her feet as she steps past the protection of the deepweald trees. eyes set upon zharille, the nebet stands between the blades of field grass like a fawn.

words fail her, clogging the girls throat but she had made her presence known through the cracking of branches as she'd exited the forest. her heart throbs, but she swallows the lump in her throat to give a gentle bark before finally approaching. her muscles were tense, and her ears flat against her skull as her body forces the grass to part for her despite having tossed her nobility aside for this moment. a moment she has been waiting — no, yearning for.

she may not be as tall as her mother, but for the first time in racharra's life she meets with her eye-to-eye. and she trembles.

there is not prey, but there is a shadow. it slants through the grass in a way that makes it easy to bypass with her eye; when it does not move as she moves, she grows suspicious of it. swinging her attention back to the shape in time for her yellow eyes to meet those familiar golden ones. the woman's ears twitch forward—and then she is striding closer, cautious for the first time in many months.

the scent of her daughter came to her nose then. racharra; then the notes of dust the likes of which she'd only found in one place. of course! her daughter was with the sand people. thriving with them by the look of things.

zharille closes the distance and with a few appreciative grunts she inspects the girl, finding her healthy, and taller than before, but not strong-built like either of her giant parents. the desert had been useful to zharille and she was glad to see racharra, but somehow also unimpressed.

a wag of the tail and then a whine is acted out on her, instinct playing her like a puppet. the smell of home just gets closer, and closer and racharra hastily closes the distance just a bit more. heat swells across her face, and soon tears sear her cheeks, and racharra is forced to swallow through it. the nebet didn't dare speak, for she knew her mother is not a woman of words. neither was she, however.

and then, something poisons her delight. her mother is distant, but she's right here. in front of her eyes. this was no desert mirage. so why then does it feel like her mother is still so far away even as she inspects her?

racharra attempts to get a little closer, ducking low as if one wrong move would be a step too far. she couldn't tell what exactly her mother was feeling, she hasn't had to use only her body to speak in such a long time. instinct fails her, too. the brief moment she could look at zharille in the eyes has gone, and she returns to being a pleading pup in the body of a blossoming woman.

there is something confrontational about zharille when those of her kind look upon her. it is basic instinct which drives this, and when racharra finally drops her gaze there is a sense of relaxation that draws through zharille. she stands as proud as usual, prouder even; watching as the girl relents and seeks approval. this is what zharille waits for, or enforces upon others the most often. she is the master of her domain even without a claim to speak of. the subtle ways in which racharra seeks to appease her mother are enough to abate any hostility.

a happy rumble erupts from her chest. zharille probes the girl for scents, wanting to know more; there is the scent of the sand people most strongly, but other things too. she is a wanderer! did she seek what all women sought in the spring? zharille thought about this for a moment—but it wasn't as if she could determine how old racharra was.

enough, then, that racharra looked to be an adult. as interested as zharille was in the girl's well-being there was no shaking the sense that she was also now a rival, perhaps roaming in search of a man for the season the way her mother did. the rumble eased to silence, and zharille held a questioning, hawkish glare upon her face.

her wag returns as her mother rumbles, and racharra just slightly rises from her initial position as she relaxes. all's good, it seems. how the nebet wishes she could tell zharille everything: how well she's done in akashingo and how now she sets out in search for marriage, how she wants to rebuild greatwater — though why should she now if her mother is back? yet most of all just how much racharra's missed her.

but her excitement fades, and she recoils when that rumble, her mother's approval, halts. her brows knit at the older woman's expression — what did she do?

mother? she feels forced to break her silence, confused more than anything.

she speaks! even that simple sound catches in zharille's ears and makes her wonder. she does not know the word, and deeper down does not know the role, as the feeling of motherhood had never taken root inside of her. she hears the accented tone of the woman before her and is reminded of the sand people; of the man who brought their wrath to the lake and to khaba.

racharra— she rumbles in reply, and while the name itself is beautiful she bludgeons it by mistake. a frown pulls at the corners of her face. she stiffens and spikes, appearing unsettled by something; if only she had some way to say what was on her mind! she could try and she knew that would make her look like a fool; was it worth the effort?

a grimace takes up residence instead. she pulls away from the woman, tries to shake the unsettled energy from her shoulder furs. when again she looks to racharra it is with a mixture of disdain and frustration—but most of that was for herself.

racharra of desert, not of lake. why? tension winds through her body and the distance between them grows.

zharille stirs in front of her, a wide range of emotions plays out in the woman racharra always likened more to a pillar until this moment: immovable.

her name, she's heard it thousands of times before, yet never from her mother. she nods when zharille huffs it, ignoring how it was butchered before her eyes. the woman steps back and racharra feels like, for just a moment, her heart skipped a beat and fear shot through her veins.

but it's her question that leaves racharra at a loss again. she steps back and rises to most of her height now.
desert, not of lake.
racharra chortles, exasperated. but.. i still am of the lake. she says, but is that even true? when she can barely even remember her father's face let alone where exactly she was born? she frowns, this is not a question she wanted to be asked.

the answer frustrates zharille further and she almost snaps her teeth at the woman's face! the urge is there, the tension in her neck, the bracing against instinct. no, wrong! you smell of little man, of desert. of red rock. her tone is accusatory; what else could it mean except that racharra had abandoned the lake entirely? putting aside that she had been a girl when zharille had vanished — now she was a woman, and she was moving freely in this wilderness. so why not take the lake back? why had she stayed with the people of the desert? these things she could not ask the way she wanted, and so she would not.

miho? drusk? the—other, the girl. she had forgotten the name of one of her children somewhere along the way, but she at least knew there were four of them. maybe she had forgotten a fifth entirely? her eyes narrow. it does not matter. there were others, that was the point. are they desert?

one of them must still hold power where they were born. if they did not retake it, then why had zharille gone back for them? it had not been for her children that she had brought akashingo there; that had been the bargain, but that had not been everything. she had to ensure that greatwater would remain claimed—but by all likelihood it had fallen and gone forgotten.

desert not home. she states flatly, petulant and soured by the exchange.

aggression. it frightens racharra, and she recoils despite no attack yet placed. head turned to the side, she eyes the increasingly frustrated woman.
i thought we were to stay with akashingo. she whimpers.

her siblings, listed out to the best of her mother's abilities. it's when she forgets one of their names that something simmers in racharra. ...liezhal. she hesitates as she corrects the giantess. ..she's doing fine. you might even be more proud of her.

i don't know about the others. it's only me in the desert.
its been only me for a very long time.

and then the final twist. there's something like bile in zharille's words, and the nebet cannot stand the way it falls upon her ears. this is not what she had waited so long for.

do you care for only the lake? racharra thought she was done trading in moontide, but right now she offers her own accusation.

when racharra admits that staying felt right (as far as zharille could understand) the woman breathes a ragged sigh and flashes her teeth, but does not lash out. her tail lashes behind her to further dispel the emotion that is building inside.

then the accusation—do you care for only the lake?

lake is home! khaba take, zharille take back! racharra still choose desert? she gnashes her teeth and backs away, turning from the young woman because she cannot risk losing her temper and harming her; at least in this moment she's thinking of her daughter.

racharra of red-stone place. little man said— she thought a moment, remembering the word senmut used but not the meaning of it; said zharille was vassal. say the same for you? you stay there like—little dog? thief-dog? she didn't know the word for coyote, or fellahin, but could at least piece together something.

make you think red-stone place is home? go, then. go home, little dog.

this is not what she waited for. this is not what she waited for.

her heart pounds against her chest, each beat sending wafts of pain throughout her body, but she ignores it. she stares at her mother's teeth. a warning, she presumes. racharra could spit.

her father's name stains the grass between them as it is spat out instead by zharille and the distance between mother and daughter grows. to think the closest racharra ever was to her mother was when she was at her teat. even that was for far too short of a time.

vassal.. she parrots to think about the word. ..it was akashingo's offer to protect the lake! and i'm no dog!

it was those final words, then, that come like a stab. go, then. go home, little dog. they echo, mocking her as they circle in her mind. her heart of glass cracks, and racharra glares at the woman she calls her mother.

her lips curl back, and the woman sheds her noble name for just a moment, and flares her teeth. muscles tense. the desert was there for me when you weren't! despite the veneer of strength, she pants between breath. her body may be strong but today racharra realizes she has a weak heart. but she must continue.

you and father are the same. you both run.

her question is answered with a flash of teeth and for a moment zharille regrets her words. she thinks she sees a little of herself there, finally; not some shade of khaba wrapped in desert finery, not some woman connected to a world she herself will never understand—racharra, wild and mighty.

zharille snarls, she cannot help it. the display is a push too far and she brandishes her own teeth against her daughter the same way as she had against the man who made her. bristling, squaring-up as if she might actually attack.

no. put you there to be safe, not—not all days! she did not run from her daughter then, she would not now. this was dangerous territory for the both of them: for zharille who might lose touch with the last of her old family, and for racharra who might leave this place tarnished and bloody.

it wasn't meant to be forever.

you smell like desert, speak like little man! not fight for home, like zharille. not build, like zharille. not choose, like zharille. what has racharra done—? hm?

she knew her mother had no fault in her disappearance. but it still hurt. and to be accused of treachery hurt even more. now the pair show off their might, but racharra doesn't dare move an inch. she knew she'd lose.

i did everything i could! it's the little one that'll save you from losing our home! that offered me a new home when i needed one! her voice is strained. all this time i wanted to rebuild the lake — for you! i'm to find a man now, and have a family of my own. but is this blood filthy now? would she be tainting the land with a curse if she were to continue this line? if it is not tied to zharille, an ogre of a woman, then what would it become when tied to racharra, daughter of an ogre? one that now speaks ill to her mother? one that pretends and now fails to be dignified?

i'm trying my best! it rings out like a declaration, though at this point she's come to understand that trying would never suffice.

racharra confirms what deeper fear lay within zharille; that this daughter of her's has become a rival at the behest of these sandpeople, no less! but she is here now because she seeks a man. it does not go unnoticed that racharra speaks of the lake now, too. that she does want to take it back, that she does plan on it—even if that means bowing to the people of the red rocks.

they send you? say to racharra, go, find man! lake is yours! and you go? she is sneering.
everything she had said up until now was confirmed. you say you not dog, racharra. only dog follow. only dog go where told.

and this was the true failing of zharille: having placed her children with these people of the desert, she had given up all ties to them, and they in turn had lost their wild natures.

so, choose now. her voice is surprisingly level. she is tired of speech and tired of banter, and tired of all of this. but zharille will not back down or run—that is not in her nature. racharra of red rocks? little dog? or racharra, daughter?

she would not ask a second time.

srry if my posts become a lil weaker!! im having great fun tho

zharille is calm. unmoving like stone. racharra is on the brink of erruption. her body shakes, barely containing the wrath that was once simmering.

i'm not a dog! she repeats, more for herself than to convince. there is no convincing anymore. it comes less like a bark and more like a yelp. she really is losing this fight and neither have even moved one step closer.

racharra's vibrato then tumbles and crashes at the question. the ogre's mocking gaze turns cold and it sends ripples down the girl's hackles. her stance finally betrays her, and racharra is forced to surrender. there'd be no fight from her. her glass heart had shattered at the question, and now she must pick up the pieces if she's to give an answer. so which would it be?

marigold eyes break away from the figure she could only see in her dreams and memories. a sniffle, and a pout. she's no woman, she's just a stupid child.
she glances one last time at zharille.
..there's nothing for me at the lake. an avoidant whimper is offered as a response. she can't bring herself to say it. she can't.

weaker! idk what ur talking about this is amazing.

and the answer comes through in the smaller ways: the aversion of her eyes, the whimpered sound of her voice falling away from the words and becoming pitiful. but it is an answer. zharille understands the way the young woman wilts; she reads this quickly, before racharra has even spoken, but the words further cement the choice.

the defeat in the daughter is briefly mirrored in the mother.
be well, racharra of the red stone. a twinge of sorrow lilts in her tone where usually there is only gravel and the menacing aura of her wild blood. the briefest moment of weakness—and yet, with the choice made, there is nothing else to speak about.

zharille will leave the young woman there without embrace, without any further question. the choice is made; a new family awaits for them both.

left to watch the stranger she once called a mother, the field embraces zharille as their own the farther she gets. racharra, however, is rejected as she's finally allowed to settle on her rump. this is no victory however, but a defeat. a loss of many things.

only recently had racharra learned she was bint-zharille, but now the ogre takes it along with the darkling's pride. she has swallowed it.

all racharra is left with is a question: now what?

silently, tears stain the dirt. it may as well be blood — it felt like her eyes were searing as if Ra had cursed her with the deadliest of his light. to purify the heathen.

with no way to take back her choice, the dog returns to her masters.

tysm for the thread <3