Hushed Willows [festival] so twice five miles of fertile ground

As quickly as Isleña’s anger had risen did it dissipate; upon hearing about Tashkent’s plight, the confusion that jumped up the back of her throat settled and was replaced with the most sincerest empathy for her fallen family. Then she felt silly for having assumed that the Luks would purposefully leave her alone, in a strange place. There was no room for such victimization in this life — pity did not yield results, only action. So now, they must move forward.

“Bu sizin üçün baş verənlərə görə üzüldüm.” she said, falling into an embrace with Tashkent and appreciating the familiarity of her closeness. “Başqaları haradadır?” she asked quietly, as if this was a clandestine question that she wanted only her cousin to hear. Really, Isleña’s lost family was a poorly kept secret, and she had belabored her solitude to anyone who would listen. Everyone knew the Luks were gone, and the fact that Tashkent resurface alone only confirmed such a thing. Still she wanted to know what happened to the wolves she had loved for all of her short life.

The bedouin shimmied backwards, meeting Tashkent’s sea-green gaze and allowing her voice to color with a tinge of dread. “Sənsiz və qardaşlarınız olmadan yaşamaq - mümkün olmadı.” The outside world — the festival, Aure, the serious of beautiful men in attendance, faded away and her halo of attention encircled only her and Taskent, two like souls in this blazing new world. They had both known what it meant to rely fully on their hoarde, then to lose it and nearly die in the process. Isleña could still feel the hunger simmer in her stomach, and the cold frost of winter as it began its deadly approach. She had been lucky for Drageda, and for Aure and Mallaidh who had found her in her frenzied state.

Isleña looked to the ground, almost in shame at her next admission. “Drageda adlanan bir qrupla yaşayıram. Onlar bizim kimi bir şəkildə var.” But not all the ways. Isleña still had a difficult time adapting to a non-nomadic lifestyle, but if she narrowed her gaze and squinted her eyes, Isleña could almost mistake the hardened Drageda for the roughness of Khorasan — albeit with a lot of fucking and fighting, but Isleña was trying her darnedest to change that much. Slowly, the pack upon the cliffs was becoming home.

She then turned her attention to Tashkent, giving her body a once-over. She did not appear to be starving or on the verge of death. Tashkent could always hold her own in uncertain circumstances, which is why Isleña had chosen to follow her in the first place. Still, Isleña questioned “Sağlamsınızmı? Biz - onlar - healers var. and, suddenly becoming aware of the pale women at her heels, turned to introduce the only healer Isleña actually knew.  “She is Aure,” Isleña beckoned with a smile, hoping Tashkent would notice how much her common tongue had improved, despite her slow tongue and lengthy pauses as she strung the words together. “A friend.” Isleña gave a laugh, then reverted back to her mother tongue, as she usually did when saying something she did not want others [anyone who was not a Luk] to understand.  “Onun kişi çox gözəl. Onu görməlisiniz!”