Hoshor Plains it was the closing of the day

Zoratto missed Azzaro. It tugged at his heartstrings everyday knowing that he could, like Lavakho, be a burned skeleton somewhere in the charred plains, picked away by the vultures and scavengers who thrived on such times. When he wasn't trying to bring the bison back into their lands, he was searching for his companion. Days went by, weeks, and no sign. He wanted to cry sometimes.

Then it happened. His voice soared above the plains, broken, battered, full of sorrow and pain, but it was his voice. Zoratto answered immediately, his deep, sonorous tones full of excitement to hear he was alive. He didn't care if anyone got the wrong implications at this point.

The lean yearling ran towards the call, feeling his heart in his chest as he saw Azzaro's form against a rock, seeing the burns, his emaciated frame. The boy whimpered, slowing to a halt before pushing past the chocolate-furred foreigner. "Ekik di sia idol!" He barked to her, standing in front of Azzaro's body, looking him over. "Azzaro..." He whispered, laying down in front of him, his head close to his. Shilta wux nymuer ve? Coi ui Zoratto, si mi tenpiswo..."