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

Awazzi nodded with each repetition of the words. Last, she said, "Me nem nesa," in agreement. "It is known. We shall climb, and be blessed."

Each of the wolves sunk their fangs into the body, the blood of the Khal. Rakharo lifted his brother by the neck, and the younger wolf carried the body by the hip. It would be a long journey, and arduous. By the end, their mouths would be thick with stale blood and ashes and burnt fur. By the end, her mouth would be dry and her throat sore. Parched and tired, the would return from their quest. This was known.

Awazzi followed behind the wolves through the burned lands. First she murmured prayers under her breath, old words that came to her as easily as breathing. The bearers were silent, their mouths full of their burden. As the mountain grew larger, she began to sing, her voice a mournful warble. Her moaning song lifted high, hopefully to the nightlands, to act as herald for the great warrior coming to join the herders above.