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claiming the steppe! Ayoka welcome too <3 single replies welcome, batu will be leaving with the tianlong travelling party & oyun is in charge!

Manifest is the vigor of the khaan under open sky, through greening sea and lures of tall altargana. The long river valley is hemmed by hills, blocking the bulk of harsh windstreak. Driving the herd to a muster, Batu raises a rough howl, saturating the soil with his stream.

“Camp will be made here until the season turns.” In the vale, against the side-winding river. “Mark it well. Let all who cross the steppe know mongolia has come home.”

He waits for the return of others. He waits for Khatar. A counsel of heaven and earth deems their awakening here. Saranai's arrival confirms this, for the khagan's gifted physician would have been dismissed only for a grave cause. Seven months would find the steppe mourning their dead. But grief cannot ensue; there is only the work of rebuilding.

Eye is kept for Sayana and Tselmuun , the widowed noyakin. They have no harem to dig their shelter, no nokud to ride out and bring back game. These things he must do before returning to the tianlong— to be trapped in place, amid excess of ponderous possessions and pounded-wall pavilions.

In his absence, “Khatun, Oyun is to be heeded.” Only to his sister does the khaan speak of this relationship with the han. “The royal party is travelling. Their land will be under lighter guard for some months. Learn its entry points, but do not rush. We must not tread the same road which buried Nazgur.”

Persistent, nagging worry plagues Khatar. There are many questions that swarm his mind; will Tianlong notice his absence? What would they do to him, to Batu, or to Saikhanbayar if they knew the rumblings of betrayal?

Umber prince rides across the plains on swift feet, following Batu.

Khatar has little to himself other than a name and royal lineage. There has been no formal training for him, not since he was spindly legged, gangly and awkward to gaze at. His skills have been honed by the unscrupulous ones of the world; by roadside bandits he fought in defense of a caravan, by bastards as he held the line of a foreign royal, by those who hired him as a cheap sellsword.

Some prince, indeed.

It is the sight of the herd that eases his mind. It is not his father’s, but their hooves as the thunder of the steppes soothes the soul. A smile almost takes his face. A tail sweeps his hock as he approaches and listens.

I can assist with the entry points. I do not believe the kin of Tianlong suspect me, he assures Batu.

It's of mild concern that Batu is to be away shepherding the han. Oyun gives him trust the khaan is entitled, therefore she does not doubt his time from them will be spent carving the footholds on which they can advance their claim, but rage is a thing that loathes to be tempered.

With knowledge now that their people are returning, resurfacing, that Alukhai's name is spreading, can he bear to stifle himself in the coming months? He must.

Khatar speaks and it implies staying behind; her chest aches to consider this.

"I trust this to be known," she addresses the other in kind, "But any who wish to venture Tianlong's route are to seek my permission before doing so. Do not make me question your whereabouts."

For now she is their keeper, is she not?

By the time she crested the final rise, her once immaculate coat had gathered the dust of many roads she paused only briefly upon the hillside, her pale green eyes sweeping over the valley below. A river wound lazily between the grasses, sheltered by rolling hills that broke the cruel bite of the steppe wind. It was a good place and she exhaled a quiet breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

His howl reached her a heartbeat later; camp will be made here until the season turns. For the first time since her arrival, something inside her settled. The healer descended at an unhurried pace, ears lowering respectfully as she approached the gathering camp. She dipped her head deeply, the gesture carrying all the weight that words alone could not.

My Khaan. her voice remained as gentle as ever, though the weariness tucked beneath it could not be entirely hidden. It is good to see you standing, dear.

The endearment escaped as naturally as breathing offered with the same quiet warmth she extended to everyone regardless of rank. Only after assuring herself that Batu bore no obvious wounds did her gaze begin drifting beyond him, instinctively searching faces that were not there. Too many faces.

I feared... she began softly before stopping herself, swallowing the thought whole. There would be time enough to grieve those who had not answered the call. A healer learned long ago that mourning could wait until the living no longer required her hands, so instead, she drew herself upright.

I brought what medicines I could salvage her eyes wandered over the beginnings of the encampment, already cataloging what would be needed.

If we're to remain until the season turns, I'll need a place away from the dust to tend the sick and wounded. And, her gaze returned to Batu with the faintest hint of sternness beneath her warm smile, before you disappear, you'll allow me to examine you,

—

She feared—

He feared.

And in the long look that seeks the otochi’s face, her narrow vulpine chest, her sinuous limbs, the plume of a tail thick and commanding, is this well of emotion; loosening, tightening, and last resolving into something in between, a fierce stoicism which wavers only when her voice cuts out in familiar affection.

“You can’t fuss over me anymore, woman.” Khaan grimaces with difficulty, trod taking him closer more urgently than pride will disguise.

Before him at last she is there, the known piebald as endearing as ever. Batu waits for no permission, pulling her from the ground to breathe in her memories and travels.

“It’s good to see your face, Sara.”

A ger for her green stores she would have, a place for wounded soldiers and pregnant mothers. But first Saranai would eat and rest and Batu would gaze at her beneath the moon and see she is with them again. Real. Alive.