j- fortify and strike

The news of Zhavvi's departure, betrayal, even, was not surprising. Unexpected, perhaps, but she knew that she would find surprises in these Wilds. Still, it was sad news. "These are ill words," said she. "Much and more will you have to suffer for your troubles. But Zhavvi is your daughter. In her heart of hearts she knows that all you did, you did for her. She will return. But let us speak no more of this foul thing." Awazzi shook her head, as though ridding herself of a particularly bothersome fly. It was a sad day when father and daughter were separated, and she did not want to taint the day of her arrival. "Time is as great as any healer, you will find. I think I will see the girl soon." And when she had such a thought, it often turned out to be true.

Awazzi was a wolf without shame. As was a part of their culture, she had been mounted by her Khal whenever he wished, wherever it was. Countless Khals had been sired where all of the khalasar were gathered, and she never felt any shame for it. It was a different way of life than the one she had once lead, but it was long ago, and she was freer for her new life. Even so, she was not ashamed of her roots, though to the Dotharan people it was othering.

"And to you," she replied in her creaking tongue, their language more comfortable than any common tongue. "Take me to this place." And so he did. She followed and observed, watched the grass sea sway as the winds herded the clouds on high before them. She let a silence cultivate new conversation, and spoke as they followed the winding creek. "Have you taken a khaleesi, Rakharo?" she asked, desperate for news of a khaleesi and a future grand-nephew. Or niece. A child to make her feel young again, and a woman to teach the ways of their god.