Kotallo and Naltuk made Song’s Edge just before a bad storm front hit and everything within the Cut was forced to find shelter. To travel during its rage was to welcome death. Kotallo sat around campfires and listened to the stories the Banuk told, of their mountainous journey, from Ban-Ur which he guessed was the cradle facility that their people originated from and of how there were summers of nothing and winters of even less. And then came the stories of the Carja, violence and death. Kotallo marvelled that they even attempted to take the Banuk prisoner then discovered just how valuable the shamans were to the mad Sun King. They knew machines, how to weaken them and how to drive them into the Sun Ring.

Aratak’s own sister was among the shamans that were taken but Ourea had survived, steeled in her soul that she would return to the Blue Spirit which was her name for Cyan.

And, as the stories continued to the daemonic machines that began to plague the Cut, Kotallo learned of Aloy’s involvement, how she befriended and inspired Ourea, one of the most austere shamans and how she challenged Aratak for the werak so that she could approach Thunder’s Drum and deal with the daemon.

Ourea had died to cast out the daemon, a vicious infestation of HEPHAESTUS that forced Cyan to do its will and tortured her when she refused.

After Ourea’s death and the restoration of Cyan, Aloy had returned the werak to Aratak’s leadership. Though unconventional, the Banuk were pleased by this wisdom and sang Aloy’s praises.

Unfortunately, because of the extended stay at Song’s Edge, Seluki managed to corner Kotallo and begged him to allow her to sketch his likeness.

“I cannot paint in this weather but I refuse to let an opportunity like this go by.” She insisted.

“I doubt my visage will inspire anyone.” Kotallo had argued as she propelled him from Aratak’s tent to her own, slammed with snow and frozen through in the minute they were exposed to the storm. He shook off the snow, the smell in Seluki’s tent reminding him of Tenakth pigments that they used to paint their skin with.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“You are part of the story of the Blue Light Spirit, Cyan along with Aloy and Ourea.” Seluki argued. “Already I am scouting the Cut for sheer rock for the vivid tale I have lost countless sleep imagining painting. Now, strip off and let me get a good look at you.”

Kotallo wished he had two arms so that he could fold them. Instead he just glared at her.

“Come now, you’ve a fine physique. What’s bothering you?”

“Common sense.”

“There’s nothing common about you.”

“Do you ask all your models to disrobe?”

Seluki smiled. “Perhaps not…but I am deeply curious about the inking I can see on your skin, hidden beneath those streaks of white paint. As an artist they thrill me just as much as a handsome body.”

“Just as much?” Kotallo asked dryly.

“Just your breastplate then.” Seluki offered. “Tell me of the inspiration of your inking, Tenakth. I can only imagine the stories they tell.”

In the end, it was quite enjoyable swapping stories with Seluki. The Banuk painted walls like the Tenakth painted skin but while a warrior’s stories were lost when they died, the Banuk’s murals were everlasting. And while their styles were different, Kotallo could see some similarities in the sharpness of the lines and the way they layered the shapes. Eventually he conceded to removing his breastplate and tunic, keeping his back to Seluki. He felt her fingers trace the impressive inking of himself opening the gates at Barren Light to allow the Tenakth to surge through and rid the west of the blood bath of the Carja.

“You need not explain this to me,” she whispered, “I can read it like I read my own work…”

Kotallo shivered at her touch, trying not to recall the way Aloy’s fingers had felt as she’d done the same. Seluki’s fingers trembled as they passed over a scar.

“One…two…three…three scars,” she breathed, “I have seen these scars many times. I bear one myself. Carja arrows…” She put her strong, calloused hands on his shoulders, avoiding the stump of his left arm and turned him around to face her. She was shorter than he, looking up at him, taking his face in her hands. “We are Banuk,” she said, tears in her eyes, “we survive…we prevail…that’s all that matters.”

Kotallo put his hands over hers. “May you fly on the Wings of the Ten.” He said in a formal Tenakth blessing before her hands drew down from his face, her fingers sliding down his neck and then to his chest, lightly tracing the inking over the place where his heart was hidden beneath.

She looked at the image then up at Kotallo and smiled, her eyes creasing with gentle kindness and understanding, softness exposed beneath her tough Banuk exterior.

“May you know your heart’s desire, Kotallo of the Tenakth.”