Morningside Cuesta down to a sunless sea

Karakorum meeting! plsss come. @Enx @Kuyuk @Isleña @Mengu

it isn't her ideal choice, but the cuesta has become a sort of rendezvous point for the barbarians. though she has done a fair bit of wandering, tashkent returns here, knowing that it is far past the time to move. conquest is a part of her just as much as blood or bone; this aimless drifting has grown tiresome, monotonous.

the princess lifts her head to the air and lets loose an eerie, ululating howl, the flute-like tones shivering out across the plains. her family should come swiftly, most out of devotion, mengu out of servitude. it is time to add to their fold, and time to find a home to take, not just for which to settle.

the time for blood has come; she tastes it under her tongue, as if the battle is underway already.

Kuyuk busies himself around the cuesta with patrols, although they were done hastily and without much effort. He's much more invested in testing his own limits, running, roaming; the open road is his calling, not this. Yet when the call breaks through the air, he stops his strides and cranes his neck, as if to watch the song itself. He lets out a yip; accustomed perhaps to the horde always rambling along with him, someone always near. 

He throws himself in to another long-stride run, and careens across the cuesta until Tashkent comes in to view. He slows, drifting around her, breathing her in and watching.

Wherever her family was, Isleña was not far behind. She would wander briefly to forage or entertain her senses with exploration, but she always wove her way back to the others. She was a packwolf if there ever was one, but if absolutely nothing else, the banshee was consistent. Isleña had already been on her way back to their rendezvous site when the call from Tashkent was loosed, and though she wasn’t far, the woman made haste.

Coming upon Tashkent and Kuyuk, Isleña gave a restless yip and cantered fluidly around the two, kicking up a dry autumnal dust. “This place bores me,” she slurred in their thick native tongue. It was not meant as a slight — most things bored Isleña, and she was only trying to make conversation. Without being particularly sneaky, the panther leapt towards the male and swatted him with a diminutive rusted paw. “Come, practice with me,” she purred, wondering if a spar might stir up some of this raw, yet stagnant, energy — she was quite unaware of any official business that her cousin wished to conduct.

He roamed near the rest of the horde, ever dutiful and obedient, just within reach should they ever need it — yet also far enough that he wasn't in their way. Silently, he mapped the area as he diligently strode through the Cuesta and its borderlands, making note of prey burrows and dens, and of any dangers they should be wary of. The Luk wolves were not the sort to fear most anything, he knew, but he also knew that a rattlesnake bite was fatal to even the most fearsome of beasts and they should be aware regardless.

The sudden howl that rings across the plains catches his attention, and Mengu promptly heads in the direction it came from. It doesn't take long, the slave arriving just after two others — Kuyuk and Isleña. The woman, the cousin of their young leader, is quick to invite the other into a spar; the members of the horde were never still for long. Mengu creeps past with his head and tail low, offering a respectful lick to the underside of Tashkent's chin should she accept it before scuttling away to take his place and listen to what she had to say.

there is no hiding her irritation at enx's absence. he best be away for good reason. but everyone else arrives--quiet kuyuk, lovely isleña, faithful mengu. she stares at all of them in turn, her eyes with a different message for each one. when everyone has settled, she speaks.

we have not had much luck here, she says, regret tinging her tone. the wolves here are stronger than i anticipated. they will not be worn down easily. she bristles, thinking of the blitheness of the girl, the obstinate treason. but we will not give up. i will go to the mountains, to see if anywhere of use can be found there.

she lifts her chin, gaze blazing seafoam fire. we will have victory, or we will die, tashkent declares. the luks are not worn down easily, either. we will take it all, and leave naught but scraps for the rest. she howls into the air once more, this call more fierce than the last. like a bolt of lightning, it sears the sky and strikes fear into the heart of anyone who hears it.