recollect this isolation

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the world would stir. maybe because of him, maybe not but zharko was uncaring for the details. zharko was above wishing for such things, above hope when action existed. if he wanted the world to part for him, he'd have to make it so. if he wanted the mountains to fall, he'd have to tear them down brick after brick. and perhaps the land was in luck. zharko wished for none, today.

instead he thirsted. his throat was as dry as the plains he hailed from, practically raw and tender to the touch. the cold beckoned him still, whispering to him from the wayward mountains. he was not unused to the cold, but something here called to him—a shift in something he couldn't describe.

he couldn't remember how he'd woke. or when. but blood crusted the fur around his mouth—his own or another's, he didn't know. didn't really care. zharko knew nothing but thirst in that moment. women or water he couldn't discern, but his heavy steps prevailed towards the closest source nonetheless.

let the former come to him.

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the water was cold when it hit his tongue, and colder when it slid down his throat. zharko might've choked on it if he was a weaker man, but he'd long since learned to adapt. new land, new flesh, nothing changed that. this part of the world was simply a little crueler, a little more grueling, it was not for weaker man.

and it would seem, this land did not cater to them so often as the boom of another echoed to his side. a language forgotten since he'd arrived bubbled to the surface in the face of its calling, in the face of a man just as strong as he. “choose vo. ei akat.” — choose not. both. he was great enough to be both. no good man, perhaps, but a man nonetheless. a strong man. a warrior man.

“yer, haj mahrazh?” — you, strong man? he practically bled strength, the aroma of a woman clinging to his pelt and yet, none accompanied him. the bite, a fresh wound, upon his shoulder drew zharko's attention second. someone had left him a gift. zharko was never one for the spitfires, he liked his docile—desperate and wanting. a fire that would bloom over time, one he could kindle and manipulate before anyone else.

it was good, then, that their taste differed. he did not wish to fight with a man of his own breed.

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---

mobile posting because i got impatient, assume italics are dothraki for the time being <3

know, he did. it was seen in the way the other carried themselves, in the scars that bled stories, and the stare that challenged his own. not threatening, but purely primal, a true animal of the land. how could he not afford another man—a brother—the recognition he so rightfully deserved? it was in their blood, molded into their being.

his own smile would mirror the other’s, stretching in time, but yet untainted like his fellow brother’s. that would change with time, it needed to. whether his teeth found their purchase within a woman, food, or an unworthy brother, the fates would decide. he was but a pawn pulling the cloaks of cleanliness off his shoulders.

a brow rose, and zharko allowed his gaze to turn, to stare out at the land around them. once it had a mark, their mark, it would do. it was not without its faults, but he supposed that was why he felt drawn. let them marvel in the imperfections of the land, let them find solace where everyone else turned away. this was theirs, there was no question. no other.

“it is worthy of us. worthy of the blood we’ve yet to share, to bleed.” his head turned back. “it will do well. the lands will feed. the waters sustain. are there mountain-people?” his head would jerk towards their snow-capped mountain border, brows furrowing in thought.

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zharko breathed in the scent of the land, the thrum of the earth mingling with the steady beat of his heart. the ground was cold even where there was green and zharko found himself favoriting that simple trait. warmth thrummed but it was within the center, the heart of their chilled land. the worthy would have to venture through the icy terrain and dangerously low temperatures to find their place within their ranks.

an effective and brisk way of managing their numbers.

“yer zhorre seen eyak? these herd?” — you have seen them? these herds? zharko had scented them, had spotted the tracks of many, but he'd not seen the nimble mammals. they'd fled the tundra before he found his mark.

zharko watched his breath cloud before him, lips upturning at the corners. “atthirar needs alikh than akat.” — life needs more than two. his tongue slid across dark lips. “yer smell ki chiori. ajjin mae bred ha lives ki mahrazhi?” — you smell of woman. is she bred for lives of men? meaning, would she provide them with the beginnings of numbers? bear children for the brothers' hands?

or would she simply be another mouth to feed? a body they would need to protect? a nuisance

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sek. it was such a simple word, but it was absolute. the men would find the herds—their herds. the earth waited for them, devoid of purpose where their feet hadn't stepped. let the men give it to them.

the man's next comment earned his attention, a distraction all it was as a deep chuckle burst forth. blood woman. but it was seriousness and humor that intertwined within his words. zharko practically choked on his laughter. “yer hash serious?” — you are serious? well, then. zharko would need to meet this...blood woman for himself. curiosity over duty.

but just as quickly, she was forgotten in the face of a fellow brother. an invitation extended, an opportunity he'd already claimed. brotherhood presented itself from the minute they'd spoken. the other was simply the first one bold enough to speak it outward.

all he gave was a toothy grin in addition to his reply. “mori wait ha us.” — they wait for us.

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