K'ile had gathered a number of huntresses near the center of camp, where K'iara had stored the food he'd brought in. Breaking into the boxes of preserved meat was like a crime to half of them, but the others were all too eager to do so. The conflict he'd had with K'iara played out again: save the food for the trip or use it for a feast? Only for K'ile, the debate was awkward, for he was the one insisting on the feast and there was only one reason a Tia would provide the tribe with a feast. This had helped motivate the reluctant huntresses, because it was ritual, and so it was at least more than base indulgence. When K'ile suggested they have only the most sparing of 'feasts' to sate their starving bellies, prepare them for the journey, and save the rest of the meat for the trip, it brought the argument to the end.
He would have to thank K'iara for that again when he got the chance.
The Tia lingered near the doorflap of the ten, watching the huntresses divide the food between what they would eat tomorrow night and what they would save for the trip north. He had to dodge knowing glances from huntresses who saw through his transparent motivation. Or maybe they were just questioning why he wasn't helping them work. Well, food had never been K'ile's job. As he turned to gaze outward, he saw a flash of pink hair and tail.
K'mih swept in, spoke in a dire tone, and then was gone so fast that K'ile barely even heard her words. An aura of discomfort suddenly radiated from inside the tent, though, and K'ile turned to see the huntresses that had just been sorting through the food for the feast in a state of pause. Tails shivered, ears turned towards one another. And then, wordlessly, they began to put the food away.
K'ile's ears fell. "What?" He turned to watch the pink of K'mih's tail shrinking away into another part of the camp. "What did-..." He bit down on his teeth. There was a scent of blood left in K'mih's wake. Her father's blood. Idiot. Only an irate child would leave camp at this time of night and come home wounded with tales of Amal'jaa. He had probably attacked them on sight and outnumbered. Of course.
"Hey," he turned to the huntresses. "Don't put the food away. I'll figure out what's going on and come back."
Of course the women ignored him. A Tia could not stand in the way of a hunt. Maybe when the women had their weapons in hand, they would hear his words again, but it would be too late to affect this.
K'ile stormed into the sand, following the scent of blood. He muttered, "I hate the Nunh," as he stomped, firey hair shifting in front of his eyes as the evening winds blew in. The air was cold. It would be very cold soon. The tribe would normally huddle around blankets and fires. But now because K'yohko had no common sense, they would be on high alert. And what were the chances anyone would be in the mood for a feast now?
Maybe better than his cynicism allowed him to believe. There was a certain pull to feasting under the glare of threat. It had a defiance to it that suited the tribe. However, the Nunh had disrespected his office by doing a woman's work and getting himself injured. What an idiot to craft such a mess. K'ile would have to find K'yohko and discern for himself the state of things.
So he followed the strong scent of the Nunh's blood.
He would have to thank K'iara for that again when he got the chance.
The Tia lingered near the doorflap of the ten, watching the huntresses divide the food between what they would eat tomorrow night and what they would save for the trip north. He had to dodge knowing glances from huntresses who saw through his transparent motivation. Or maybe they were just questioning why he wasn't helping them work. Well, food had never been K'ile's job. As he turned to gaze outward, he saw a flash of pink hair and tail.
K'mih swept in, spoke in a dire tone, and then was gone so fast that K'ile barely even heard her words. An aura of discomfort suddenly radiated from inside the tent, though, and K'ile turned to see the huntresses that had just been sorting through the food for the feast in a state of pause. Tails shivered, ears turned towards one another. And then, wordlessly, they began to put the food away.
K'ile's ears fell. "What?" He turned to watch the pink of K'mih's tail shrinking away into another part of the camp. "What did-..." He bit down on his teeth. There was a scent of blood left in K'mih's wake. Her father's blood. Idiot. Only an irate child would leave camp at this time of night and come home wounded with tales of Amal'jaa. He had probably attacked them on sight and outnumbered. Of course.
"Hey," he turned to the huntresses. "Don't put the food away. I'll figure out what's going on and come back."
Of course the women ignored him. A Tia could not stand in the way of a hunt. Maybe when the women had their weapons in hand, they would hear his words again, but it would be too late to affect this.
K'ile stormed into the sand, following the scent of blood. He muttered, "I hate the Nunh," as he stomped, firey hair shifting in front of his eyes as the evening winds blew in. The air was cold. It would be very cold soon. The tribe would normally huddle around blankets and fires. But now because K'yohko had no common sense, they would be on high alert. And what were the chances anyone would be in the mood for a feast now?
Maybe better than his cynicism allowed him to believe. There was a certain pull to feasting under the glare of threat. It had a defiance to it that suited the tribe. However, the Nunh had disrespected his office by doing a woman's work and getting himself injured. What an idiot to craft such a mess. K'ile would have to find K'yohko and discern for himself the state of things.
So he followed the strong scent of the Nunh's blood.
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