Hoshor Plains Dust to the wind, Blood of my blood...

"Me nem nesa." He repeated after his Khal, before listening to and accepting his duty, his honor. Zoratto knew better than to disobey a member of the Dosh Khaleen; it was engraved in him from birth to respect such women of power. Even their khal, Rakharo, was subject to their influence, even more so in this state of grief. Zoratto was glad, at least, that it was not Azzaro. He would not have known what to do had it been him. He supposed he would be in the same state as his Khal was now.

Zoratto's fangs sunk into what was once Lavakho's hip, a terrible spot to hold, but it would have been awkward to hold the wolf's carcass by the legs, or by the tail. He was stubborn, though, biting in deep, despite the taste of ash and soot, and dead, old blood. It was arduous, but he had to do it. For his Khal.