The Tribe

I was born a Xaela Au Ra, the daughter of the Hotgo Tribe, raised under the vast, open skies of the Azim Steppe. From the time I was a child, my voice seemed to hold something special. It was as if the winds themselves had gifted me the ability to carry the magic of song. As I grew, that voice became a bridge between my people and the heavens. I became the one chosen to speak for the tribe, to offer prayers to Nhaama, the Mother of the Sky. In times of joy, in times of sorrow, my voice excited and soothed. I sang for the sick, the injured, the young—my melodies became a balm for aching bodies and wounded hearts. And so, I was known as a healer, a guide through both pain of the body and the soul’s deepest wounds.At sixteen, I began my training to join the Naadam, the sacred contest of the Steppe. But before I could fully step into that role, my mentor—the one who had taught me the healing arts—passed away. The mantle of caretaker and medicine woman fell to me. With a heart full of grief and responsibility, I made the decision to remain with my people and carry on the work her had started. Though my dreams of competing in the Naadam were dashed, I threw myself into the art of healing with a fierce resolve. Using aether, the ingenuity of my tribe, and my knowledge of the local flora, I would make him proud, even in his absence.The next two years were a rhythm of song and healing—mending both bodies and spirits. I became known for my gentle touch and the way my songs could ease pain. My days were filled with the sounds of my people, their laughter, their cries, the heartbeat of the tribe. But little did I know that a storm was brewing, one that would change everything.That fateful night I had just finished singing a lullaby to the children under my care when a soft hum on my lips turned into a jarring reality. I stood at my mortar and pestle, lost in the melody of my song, when the sound of a horn pierced the night. A war horn. The unmistakable warning of an invasion. My stomach twisted, my breath catching in my throat. My family were in danger.I rushed to the entrance of my yurt, pulling back the flap and stepping into the chaos. The sight before me stole the air from my lungs—flames engulfing the camp, the acrid smoke filling my nostrils. The air was thick with the sounds of battle, the screams of those I loved, the clash of steel. I couldn’t stand there frozen. I had to act, to think. There were people who needed me.I ducked back into my medical station, my heart pounding. I helped those who could stand to their feet, and for the others—the injured, the sick—I carried them with all the strength I had left. We fled, we escaped, we ran toward safety, but the battle was far too close, and it was far from over.When I knew the last of them were safe, when a young teen had taken charge of those I couldn’t help, I ran back. I returned to the heart of the fight, hoping to find my mother or father, to rescue anyone still in danger. But it was there, in the thick of the flames and death, that I met my fate.Two Dotharl raiders set upon me. In a desperate, frantic fight for my life, I moved to cut them off and engage. A fight long desired though the odds were against me, especially exhausted from evacuating the others. It was a losing battle, all it took was a single misstep. A slip. I lost my balance and felt the sharp bite of a blade across my neck. The last thing I remember was the gurgle of blood filling my throat, the searing pain as my voice—my gift—was silenced forever...

Recovery and Relapse

It has been a month. A whole month since I awoke from the nightmares, and still, I feel the weight of that night pressing on me. The loss of blood, the terror, the anguish… I was certain I would not survive it. Were it not for the unknown survivor who dragged me from the camp and led me to those two Doman scholars, I would have never made it. They helped me—no, saved me—pulling me back from the brink of death. The days that followed are nothing but a haze; I spent them in a coma, fighting to stay alive, and slowly—so slowly—returning to the world I thought I’d lost forever.I find myself clinging to life in a foreign land, unable to speak, unable to even acknowledge the pain inside me. It’s hard to put into words the sorrow that weighs down my heart, but I can try—though it's too vast for even this page. The loss of my family, of everything I once held dear, is something too heavy to bear.For the first few weeks, I only knew the darkness of sleep, nightmares of that night never letting me go. And yet, I would wake just long enough to force down food—some meager sustenance—before drifting back into a slumber filled with ghosts. Sometimes, they’d wake me to try to teach me to walk again. My muscles were weak, useless, and it seemed to take forever to regain even a fraction of what I once had. For each step, I felt as though I shed another tear. Each stumble, each failed attempt, brought a scream—but there were no words. No sound at all. Just silence.It took twice as long as I was trapped in that black void before I saw any improvement. Slowly, very slowly, I began to regain my strength. My steps with a cane became steadier, and my muscles began to fight their way back from atrophy, but it was as though my body had forgotten what it was once capable of. I am still a stranger to my own body.Now, with the changing of the season, I am seeing some progress physically. But every night, as the sun sets, I feel myself slipping back into that prison of memory, that hell made of embers and blood. My mind, trapped in a never-ending loop of torment, cannot seem to escape. It haunts me in the quiet hours, and I wonder if it ever will cease...

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