Among the Dotharl (FFXIV Tribal/Class Change TF)

Having saved the world once again, the Warrior of Light is attending to some long-neglected responsibilities. She visits the Azim Steppe and the Dotharl tribe, but while she's helping out around the village, they snag on the idea that she's actually a member of the tribe reincarnated... and start being quite insistent on the matter...

-----

“I really am sorry for spending so long away from the Steppe,” A green-haired woman with pale scales said. “I have responsibilities as Khagan, but I had other duties…”

“Ha! Save your breath, Khagan.” Her companion laughed, “It’s the Dotharl way to seek greater and grander battles; the Dotharl who resents you for having grander battles to fight than those of the Steppe is no Dotharl at all.” The woman - of deep blue skin and black-blue scales - poured more of the strange booze that her Khagan had brought with her, and downed it in one gulp. “Because of you, the tribe has been involved in grander battles than any still among us can remember. We’d have only complained if you dared leave us behind!”

Petra Stelle, Khagan of the Azim Steppe, sighed, but smiled a bit. Sadu was many things - bloodthirsty, battle hungry, overly aggressive. But at least she was simple. No complex politics to deal with here, no greedy businessmen or religious fanatics. Just a whole tribe of people who loved nothing more than a good fight. It was nice for her to finally have a chance to come by.

The Warrior of Light was a woman with many responsibilities. She’d led a busy life, ever since she came to Eorzea, still a novice adventurer barely capable of swinging a sword or putting her shield in between herself and the opponent. Back in those days, nobody could have picked her out from the crowd of adventurers in the Quicksand, of every race and type imaginable. Sure, maybe Au Ra of the Raen clan were pretty rare in Eorzea, but adventurers were as diverse a bunch as you could find - by their standards she was normal. Petra Stelle had left a life of comfort and wealth to help people, and maybe sate the occasional urge to commit violence, but mostly help people. And as a random adventurer on the street, she’d done that.

Back in those days, everything had been simple. She’d helped people. And that got her noticed by big players who asked her to help more people. And then she fought a man in black robes and the Scions of the Seventh Dawn contacted her - and the rest was history. She’d gone from some no-name adventurer to the champion of Eorzea, ender of the Dragonsong War, hero of Doma and Ala Mhigo, and any number of other titles. She’d saved the world more times than she cared to count.

And finally, for once, the world was staying saved. For a few blessed months, the world she’d saved kept on turning without her needing to fight a cataclysmic threat again. For the first time since she took up the mantle of the Warrior of Light, Petra had a godsdamned break. She could attend responsibilities that had fallen by the wayside in the quest to save the star. Help with the Ishgardian Restoration, mop up Imperial remnants in Bozja, attend her squadron for the Immortal Flames…

Perhaps it said something about her that this was her idea of a break.

One part of these duties to which she could now attend was a position she’d picked up nearly in passing, while rallying allies to the fight for Doman independence. She was Khagan of the Azim Steppe’s tribes of dark-scaled Xaela-clan Au Ra - apparently, their laws cared only for victory in the battle-royale tournament to gain the position, not caring one whit if the fighter was a native of the steppe, or even a Xaela. Due to the particular nature of the Steppe the tribes largely governed themselves, but she’d effectively become their highest inter-tribe position and then screwed off to do other things but for a few brief visits when she needed something from them.

So, now that the world could survive five minutes of her directing her attentions elsewhere without bursting into hellfire and death (Petra had always thought the declaration of the 8th Astral Era a touch premature, but now it seemed to truly have arrived), she had resolved to visit the Steppes once again, to meet with the tribes and see if they needed anything of her. The Mol had simply been happy to see her, the Oronir had been as aloof as ever, the Qestir were… the Qestir, and now she’d come to the Dotharl’s home village of Dotharl Khaa.

Well, when she’d arrived, the Dotharl’s Khatun had done what Sadu always did when she saw Petra - challenge her to a fight. And this time Petra hadn’t dodged the issue - it was so nice to be able to enjoy a fight without the fate of the world on the line for once. After giving each other a sound thrashing (with significantly more of Petra doing the thrashing), they’d retreated to the Khatun’s tent for a few drinks.

“Well,” Petra said, realizing she’d been deep in her thoughts for a few moments too long, “It’s good to hear that. I’ll have to come by again soon to give you all another fight, then, since it seems like there won’t be any more big ones for a while - maybe this time we can have a few of you come at me at once.”

“Ha! Confidence befitting a Khagan. Perhaps it’ll teach some of the young ones how far they have to go, when they see they can’t even put a scratch on your armor. Put some fire in their hearts.”

As they spoke and nursed their drinks, their chatter was interrupted by an older Dotharl warrior. “Khatun! We need help!”

Sadu and Petra both stood at once at seeing the man’s expression, and followed him out the tent. “What’s happened?” Petra asked.

The man - Tahir, Petra was pretty sure his name was - looked at her and seemed almost surprised she was there. “I was patrolling the area by yol when I noticed a party of Matanga not far from the camp. They didn’t seem to be coming towards us, but I saw they were chasing someone - I think it was Cota, Baatu, and Dorbei.”

No further words were needed - Petra and Sadu both mounted their own yols (huge birds tamed by the clans for ritual purposes; Petra had acquired hers during her earlier adventures in the Steppe) and charged off in the direction the sentry had reported, Tahir guiding them.

As they flew, Petra noticed Sadu was uncharacteristically serious for when a fight was coming soon. Usually she’d be jubilant - and not much care for the potential for death, due to the Dotharl’s steadfast belief that the souls of their dead would return to them in time in new bodies, the reason they passed their names down through history.

The Dotharl had once been one of the mightiest tribes - but now they were few in number, their lack of concern for their own safety taking it’s lethal toll. Petra wondered if that was part of what dampened her usual enthusiasm.

“There!” Petra shouted over whipping winds, pointing down below. The elephantine marauders, a tribe that killed Xaela for the joy of it, stood out against the rolling greens of the Steppe, and that made finding them quite easy from a bird’s eye view - and by extension made it easy to find their prey.

Without further words between them the pair took their mounts into a steep dive. As they approached Petra could begin to make out the fact that the fleeing youths seemed injured - one held their arm close to their chest and another was limping, falling behind. One of the Matanga raised their weapon to strike.

The youth flinched back, closing their eyes and waiting for the end to come - but it didn’t. When they looked again, they saw the Matanga’s axe-arm sailing off in an arc. Petra had leapt from her mount and intercepted the attack with one of her own. The marauder reeled, bellowing in rage and pain, while Petra turned to tend to the teenager’s injury.

“It’s alright now. The wound isn’t serious, and you’re safe now. Can you make it to your friends? Sadu went to help them and it will be easier if you’re in a single group.” Petra said softly.

“I- my leg-” The young man - Baatu, Petra was pretty sure was this one’s name - stammered.

“Is already healed.” Petra said. She removed her hand from the wound - of which there was no longer any sign but the faint motes of aether dispersing from the healing magic. “Don’t worry about the Matanga, I’ll make sure they don’t follow you.”

The elephant-man she’d maimed had come up behind her now, attacking with his remaining hand. Baatu flinched back, but Petra caught the blow one handed. The difference in size between a petite Au Ra woman and a hulking elephant man was immense - they were around three times her height and even moreso her weight before the armor - but she seemed to have no more difficulty blocking the blow than one might have fending off a playful coeurl kitten. Even as she smiled reassuringly to the child, there was a sickening crunch as she broke every bone in the marauder’s hand.

“Like I said. They won’t follow you.” Petra repeated. “Go on.”

As Baatu fled, Petra turned to the raiding party, tossing away the now-unconscious Matanga as if they weighed nothing. “I’ve met your kinder kin in Thavnair, you know. They’re so very sweet, it’s hard to imagine they share blood with you.” she said, “You, on the other hand, harmed children. Quite sorry to say, but your lives are forfeit.” She was outnumbered, twelve to one. It just wasn’t a fair fight.

The poor bastards didn’t know what they were getting into.

One came at her, bellowing for vengeance. His cries were swiftly cut off with a blade in the throat, Petra leaping to reach it as if she weren’t wearing full plate armor. As she landed, she whirled around and tossed her shield at one that had taken the opportunity to duck past her - the Marauder was dead before they hit the ground, while her shield bounced back towards Petra with a small pull of aether. Two more died as she whirled back around with her sword out, cutting them down at the knees. “I admire your courage, but I really can’t praise your stupidity.” The warrior said idly.

Even as most of their fellows stood back in fear, one Matanga that remained close managed a blow. An axe came right for Petra’s head. She shifted a shoulder up ever so slightly to intercept, and when the strike landed, the weapon shattered. The Matanga barely had the time to be shocked before Petra raised her sword again - and despite the clear blue skies without a cloud in sight, lightning struck the raider dead. “Consider this divine retribution for daring to attack innocents.”

The remainder began to flee, but Petra hadn’t been kidding. Their lives were forfeit, and she had no desire to spare those who would harm children. She clutched her sword and channeled her aether, and a burst of light ended one of them where they stood. A second, a third, a fourth. The remaining marauders thought they were safe as far from her as they were at least, until light ringed one of their feet and a humongous blade burst from the ground and skewered them where they stood. The next died to a rain of swords, and the final a single humongous one from the sky.

The whole engagement hadn’t even taken a minute.

Petra turned from the massacre and flicked the blood from her blade before sheathing it. Once upon a time, that many marauders at once might have been a threat. But it had been a long time since her first visit to the Steppe - she’d faced ever greater foes, pushed further and further beyond her limits. It was no more difficult to kill them to the last than it would be to stomp an anthill. Easier, even - they were larger targets.

As she turned to follow the children, she saw that the Dotharli had come to her after Sadu handled the other marauders. “It’s good to see they’re safe.” Petra said with a smile that didn’t quite belong to one whose face was splattered with blood.

“I had heard of your prowess from the others, but I’d never seen it myself…” Tahir sighed wistfully. “Thank you for your assistance. The young ones owe you their lives.”

“T-Thank you…” One of the youths - the teenager that Petra had saved - said. Was he… blushing?

“Hah! As if such foes can stand up to a Khagan of the Azim Steppe!” Sadu laughed. “I only regret that you didn’t leave enough for me.”

“It was awe inspiring,” Tahir insisted. “Seeing you heal the wounds and then turn and strike down those who caused them… I can’t help but be reminded of Shar.”

Petra tilted her head. “Shar? I don’t think I’ve met anyone in your tribe named that, and I’d thought I was thorough…”

“Oh, you have been,” Tahir reassured her, “You would not know her. She was lost to us over twenty five winters ago, dying to save her charges against a force much like the one you just ended. Like you, she fought with blade and spell to protect her charges, using the same magic to heal their wounds. When she and Sadu - that is, her previous life - were together, the Dotharl were unbreakable.”

Petra smiled. The Dotharl might be a bit odd, but she figured it was a complement in their own way. “Well, thank you. I’m happy to be compared to such a respected figure.”

“Indeed, if you were not an outsider, I would go as far as thinking you might be her soul returned to us.” Tahir continued. “In personality as well - a protective and kind soul hiding a love of battle beyond many of her peers. It is truly an uncanny resemblance.”

Sadu raised an eyebrow at Tahir for a second while Petra rubbed at her neck awkwardly. The intensity of the old’s man voice was a bit odd. But what the Khatun of the Dotharl said was a surprise to Petra, and probably nearly as much to her people. “Ha! Perhaps she is. Did you not say Shar was a wanderer, one of few amongst us to ever travel beyond the Steppe?”

Tahir smiled wistfully. “Ah, that would be just like her, now wouldn’t it… she’s just the sort who’d take the opportunity to explore new places.”

Well, that wasn’t quite what she expected. Petra coughed a bit. “Well, I’m flattered… she would certainly have seen some interesting places if that was the case, that’s for certain…”

“It’s not unheard of.” Sadu insisted seriously, in the kind of tone she only ever took when expounding on her tribe’s beliefs. “Rare, but not impossible. When there is no new life for the soul to go to, or when they must rest from our eternal battle but don’t wish to become one with the Dusk Mother.”

“Is she going to join us?” One of the youths - this one was a girl, Cota - asked, “If she’s Shar that means she is Dotharl, isn’t she?”

Oh that was just unfair, Petra couldn’t crush a kid’s hopes like that. “Well… I can make my visit a bit longer, at least.” she said. She was hardly going to join the tribe - even ignoring the fact she was a Raen and not a Xaela, she had many other responsibilities.

She shrugged at Sadu, but the tribe’s leader looked oddly thoughtful, looking at Petra with what could only be described as an appraising look.

As Petra mounted her yol again and started to help the kids on top for the ride back, Sadu reached a hand down into a pouch on her hip. Among many other supplies for everyday use, there was a certain item that it was her responsibility as Khatun to carry. She rubbed it softly - perhaps that long-past, nearly forgotten training in its use would be needed at last.

-----

Petra’s extended stay was positively received; the Dotharl generally liked her since she was an especially good fighter, and she didn’t try and abuse any authority she might have had unlike the Oronir always had done while they held the position of Khagan. Even though she was an outsider, and not even from any of the Steppe tribes let alone the Dotharl, they could accept a Khagan like that.

Naturally, the story of her helping to save the Dotharl youths had spread around and improved her popularity further - they all knew about her impressive display of swordsmanship and magic and courage. The tale had grown exaggerated with a swiftness that would have impressed a certain wandering minstrel Petra knew - to hear it told even two days after the fact she’d slaughtered a whole tribe of Matanga singlehandedly to save the children, followed by their Primal.

And just as naturally, the same youths had spoken about what they’d heard Tahir and Sadu say. The idea of the well liked and powerful Khagan actually being of Dotharl soul even if not Dotharl blood was met with resounding approval; it was only natural that such a powerful warrior as the world had never seen before would actually be a Dotharl. So now everyone in the camp was calling Petra ‘Shar’ instead, as if hoping that doing so would convince her to stay with them.

Petra justified her extended stay with the Dotharl as making sure they were alright (to herself mostly, she was Khagan - she didn’t need to justify it). Their numbers had dwindled more and more. The so-called “Deathless ones” had no fear of mortality; they believed that while the physical body could die, such was meaningless as the soul would simply take the next open spot and be reborn again. This gave them nearly unparalleled ferocity on the field of battle; after all, if you can never truly die, what threat is the enemy’s blade but a temporary agony?

It also made them take constant, significant, and unending attrition. Dotharl died faster than new ones could be born and raised. Petra hoped that with the more peaceful Mol in charge of the Azim Steppe after she and her allies led them to victory in the Nadaam tournament on her first trip to the region, they might have a chance to recover.

But for now, they were short on bodies - so she helped out around the village. It was two days after her stay had begun that she was asked to go out on a hunt with them to secure food for the next season - the recent Matanga raiding party had the tribe on edge and while confident they could defeat them, it wouldn’t be without casualties if they were ambushed.

Thus, Petra was following along with a hunting party. So far, they’d yet to encounter anything untoward, bagging a number of Steppe Dzos (ram-like beasts with tough meat that was surprisingly good when cooked well) and different kinds of birds for a warmup. But that was a prelude - things they’d found on the way to the real prey of this hunt.

The tracks in the ground weren’t so much distinct footprints as they were a trough in the earth slightly lower than the ground beside it. Too many heavy feet had compacted the dirt and mud in their path as deeply as it would go. It made them easy to track - but that didn’t usually matter to the Steppe Mammoth, an animal large and threatening enough that any predator would think twice about approaching a lone mammoth, nevermind a herd.

Dotharl hunters were no normal predators though - and bagging just one mammoth would feed the tribe for a long while, and any more and they could preserve the meat or sell it in the Qestir tribe’s markets to get other essentials. It was worth the prize, and the Dotharl didn’t fear death on a hunting trip any more than they did in combat with other tribes.

That was why Petra was surprised that when they began to make an approach towards the final target, the hunt leader called her over. She’d been mostly shadowing them, having slipped out of her clink-clonking armor into something a bit more comfortable (though her defensive aether usage meant she was only slightly less protected than normal) - a simple outfit provided by the tribe that made her fit in a bit more with the group. Her job so far had been catching runaways; a sword wasn’t much of a weapon for a hunt compared to bows and spears (and she was a bit out of practice with those - note to self, track down Estinien for a refresher). …Moreover, she didn’t want to make any of the hunters feel inadequate.

“Do you need something, Arik?” Petra asked as she crept up to where the hunt leader was squatting. Just a few dozen yalms up the road, the herd they’d tracked was resting at a pond, drinking and grazing on some of the plants.

“It’s nothing so urgent, Shar-” Arik started.

“Petra.” The paladin gently corrected.

The man raised a knowing eyebrow. It was a little patronizing honestly - many of the Dotharl had commented that many youths acted as she did after learning what their past selves were like. He continued, but didn’t correct himself. “I’d simply ask you to take the lead on the mammoths.”

Petra blinked with surprise. “Pardon? That seems like a lot for an outsider.” she said. It wasn’t that she couldn’t - heck, she’d killed many while trying to get some ingredients for cooking. Just it was a bit out of what she’d expected from people who lived for battle.

“The only one here who’s not led the charge against a pack before is yourself, is it not, Shar?” he said, continuing before Petra could correct him again, “I know you’ve probably slain some on your own - Dusk Mother knows you’ve fought worse. But it’s quite different to do it with the tribe at your back. You were an avid hunter once, you know.”

Petra had heard this. She’d been hearing it the whole hunt. Friendly Dotharl telling her about how this Shar person hunted - how she moved, how she struck, how much she enjoyed it. And, sure, Petra was no stranger to a thrilling fight, but that didn’t mean she was the same. It did sound nice though - and maybe she’d be able to make some extra that night if she got the kill for herself.

She rolled her eyes. “If you say so. How many do we need?”

“Two is what we can return with our current party.” Arik said with a smile.

“Three then.” Petra said. The man raised an eyebrow. “I can carry the third.”

Petra took the lead now, slinking along as quiet as she could and with several of the hunters behind her. The hunters had spoken at length about how Shar liked to hunt, and Petra couldn’t help but think about it as she moved. Using her thorough knowledge of the terrain to keep herself out of sight even in what looked to be nearly flat land - something which Petra thought herself reasonably capable of, and trying to accomplish here.

Petra hadn’t spent as much time in the Steppe as she’d liked, but she found that with a bit of effort she could use the terrain well. The slight inclines and declines, some old boulders jutting out here or there, even just some sections of especially tall grass - she was able to lead the party within two dozen yalms of their prey without spooking them, which for someone who didn’t do much stealth was pretty impressive.

Petra would strike first, naturally. This was hardly sword range, but it was well within magic range. She’d been told the woman to whom everyone was comparing her now had often hunted using her magic, seeing it as practice for the battlefield. Petra wasn’t practicing for anything, but she could see the logic in it… and if aimed right, it might be more effective than bows, without significantly damaging the meat.

She could at least give it a go. She took a moment to focus and channel her magic; usually, the spells came out lightning quick without the most particular aim, weaved in with her swordplay, but for now she was tapping more on her practice in white magic. Patience, carefully collecting her aether for precise attacks - less straightforward powerful than her usual snap casts but better aimed and not as destructive, which was what she wanted right now.

The paladin took a deep breath in, and out, and three balls of light formed around her. Some of the mammoths looked up, wondering what was causing the light, but before they could do any more she sent the light forth with an effort of will.

Three of the mammoths fell over, with small, neat holes burnt through the backs of their heads, an instant and painless death. The rest reeled, huffing and snorting and squealing their shock and dismay. Normally they’d turn on a hunting party and try and attack, but something deep in their animal minds screamed that there was no use in trying to fight - the only chance for survival was flight, so they turned and ran, the ground shaking with their mountainous footsteps.

Petra stepped from the hiding place and shrugged to the other hunters. She was fairly used to this response now. Even the most aggressive monsters and beasts could sense life-threatening danger when it approached and for most of them, Petra triggered every flight reflex they had. Something with aether sensitivity, she supposed - they could sense the fact she could end them effortlessly and thus left her alone, assuming they didn’t bolt outright.

That didn’t make it at all less impressive to the hunters who hadn’t seen her fight like that though. The men and women cheered and rushed to inspect the corpses, pausing to congratulate her on a job well done or express their amazement at her skill.

“Amazing, Shar! Even Sadu has never killed so many at once - at least not in any condition to eat!”

“You’re as good as they say, Shar. No wonder you became Khagan.”

“Shar, you must come on the next hunt, if we keep this up we’ll never go hungry!”

Or rather, they congratulated Shar. Petra did roll her eyes a bit at the way they all so insistently used that name, but it made them happy, so she couldn’t complain too much. She wandered up to one of the mammoths, as the other hunters split into two teams to heft the carcasses onto the sleds they’d left a ways back - and drew out more surprised shouts as she grabbed the third corpse by the tusk and started dragging it back herself.

She didn’t notice the subtle shifts as she went back; she seemed just a bit more lean, just a bit less muscled. Most of her strength was in her fine control of aether within her body, not her muscles, but the change was there if one looked for it. Her gait was a bit less refined and more predatory.

Small shifts for now, with more in her head. But only someone who had known her for ages would notice, and all anyone in the Dotharl tribe saw was Shar being like Shar.

-----

“...-and another dash of spice, a pinch more salt… there we go. Give it a try?” Petra sliced a piece off the meat she’d finished preparing and offered it to the camp cook.

He looked at it a bit skeptically. The Dotharl weren’t used to most spices; while they were sold by traveling traders and in the nearby village, generally most of the tribe’s surplus funds went to things meant to preserve the food they caught. But Petra had been carrying some herbs and spices in her bag, and had used them in the food preparation.

The cook took a bite, and his eyes widened with surprise. “A powerful flavor… I thought myself capable of making mammoth meat edible, but I don’t think I could eat it the way I used to anymore…” he sighed, and took another bite, savoring it.

Petra rubbed the back of her forehead. “You don’t have to flatter me, really. I’m happy to help around here.” And also had problems trusting food she hadn’t cooked personally - too much poison in her experience.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Shar. It’s better than anything I’ve made.” The man snorted. “I’ll appreciate the help more if you tell me how you did it. I might not be quite as capable on the battlefield as others, but I’ll not take a defeat lying down all the same.”

“Later, maybe. I’ll show you when I make the next batch. I need to go check on something else.” Petra said with a smile.

“A woman of many talents like yourself is sure popular. You can let yourself enjoy that, you know.”

Another several days had passed since the hunting trip; the tribe had returned with more meat than they knew what to do with, and the mood in the camp had been brighter than ever. Petra had decided to remain a bit longer, to help take care of the duties that came from such a successful hunt.

It was here she put her handiwork skills to the test. She didn’t consider herself world-class by any means, but she had always had a knack for picking up anything she put her mind to. She’d been practicing smithing, weaving, cooking, leatherwork, carpentry… the list went on and while she didn’t see herself as a master of any of them she was quite adept at all.

She might have taken up a few hobbies since the world-saving finished. She didn’t trust food or drinks she didn’t make herself anymore, so learning to cook was a necessity. Her armor and weapons needed constant maintenance or else they’d break apart under the stresses she put them through so she could work metal well. Weaving let her better make adjustments to the armor’s padding, and besides which, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t like a pretty dress now and then…

That let her be useful to the tribe in ways besides the violence - and though they loved that, they clearly appreciated her skill in assorted crafts nearly as much. As much as she was a guest, Petra wasn’t somebody who liked the feeling of sitting around and doing nothing. She had to be doing something with her hands.

After finishing up with the cooking (and reserving herself some of the stuff she made - she didn’t think the cook was planning poison, or anyone else in the tribe for that matter, but she knew she’d not be able to eat otherwise), Petra wandered out of the cooking tent and into the camp proper. By now, she was a more regular sight. People cheerfully called out to “Shar” as she passed, and Petra had stopped bothering to correct them. The Dotharl were stubborn and they took it as a challenge.

“Shar, could you come here for a second?” Another voice asked, and Petra smiled as she turned to a new tent.

“Need something?” Petra asked - already pulling out a pair of work gloves, in case it was what she expected it to be.

The tent smelled not too dissimilar from the cooking tent, but this one had a larger variety of sharper odors. This was where medicines were prepared. Potions and tinctures of all kinds, from healing to energizing to strengthening, were popular amongst the tribe - their usage allowed longer work independent of support, which appealed to their fiercely independent nature.

“I could use some of your expertise.” The medicine woman reluctantly admitted. “The higher quality tools have done wonders for my tinctures, but I’m having trouble using the new ones…”

Ah, that explained the trouble. Petra had taken the liberty to craft some modern tools while she was there, including some for alchemy. The straight upgrades like better crushing and mixing tools were well received, but it seemed some of the more complicated stuff like the alembic was causing trouble.

“I see, don’t worry about it. It’s more intuitive than it seems - not long ago I’d barely known which side was supposed to go up.” Petra reassured her, as she walked her through the operation of the tools.

It wasn’t long before they were pumping out potions, with Petra helping by preparing the ingredients and giving the medicine woman some tips on how to use some of the more esoteric tools properly. She tried to let her learn herself rather than doing it for her, and to her credit the woman had something of an instinct for it.

They’d made several potions by the time they ran out of ingredients, and the medicine woman wiped some sweat from her brow. “These tools are really something, aren’t they? Would have taken hours to get through all these normally, but we’re already done.”

“The Ul’Dah Alchemists are a weird bunch, but they made some big strides.” Petra said proudly - she was only recently a member of that guild, but still quite proud of it. “The more used to it you get the faster it goes. Make sure to clean the tools every time you use them though, or else you risk messing up dosages or contaminating concoctions.”

The woman nodded. “Usually our tribe doesn’t travel far from the Steppe. That’s the Qestir’s domain,” she said, “But perhaps you were reborn abroad in order to bring us back new wisdom like this, Shar. The new tools and techniques you brought with you are amazing…”

Petra felt her face flush a bit. She was no stranger to praise - being an adventurer of any renown got you a lot of thanks over time, nevermind her own status - but from this person who seemed to mean it so sincerely, it had a surprisingly strong effect on her. “O-Oh, thanks… it’s nothing major, the least I can do…” she mumbled, trying not to let the surprise emotions show too strongly.

The adventurer politely excused herself, and went back to roaming the camp. It wasn’t weird to help people. For her, it was practically a reflex. It wasn’t weird that she got praised for it, that was just what happened when you helped someone (at least if they were polite. That pretentious woman in the Ul’Dah arena had never thanked her for her help picking up lost coins back when she was a newbie…). It was weird that it was having this effect on her, and Petra wasn’t sure why.

She wondered if she'd been out for too long. Her skin was getting darker, surely a sign of a tan even with the odd tint in that. If she didn’t know any better she’d think her scales were changing too. Raen-type Au Ra had pale, white-green scales, and she could swear hers were almost looking like they had a blue tint… She fiddled with some hair that had managed to wrap around a horn, wondering what the odd feeling she had was.

“Ah, Shar!” A new voice said, and shocked Petra from her reverie.

“Huh? Need something?” Petra asked.

“Yes. We’re repairing some old clothes and were wondering if you could help…”

Petra didn’t have a chance to question further, as she was dragged along into task after task. The Dotharl were reasonably polite to her - the respect due an equal rather than deference one might expect to a Khagan. They never insisted she do something for them - but she was the kind of person who would anyway.

“Shar always was the type to give far too much of herself…” one said, as the day turned to evening and then to night. Petra had been working for nearly the whole day, bouncing between jobs and helping anyone who asked. The speaker was an older woman, one who remembered the “previous” Shar. “Do consider resting. A warrior who does not rest comes to battle disarmed of their wits.”

Petra waved off the concern. “Helping people is what I do. I’ll rest soon.” she said. There was always more work to be done around the village…

-----

“You’re sure it’s alright for me to be here?” Petra asked, feeling a bit nervous. She looked out over the assembled menand women, chatting away around the bonfire. She’d never been shy about public speaking, but it felt… odd, for her to be here. Like she was intruding. “This is like, a religious ceremony, isn’t it? It seems like something that should just be for the tribe. Not an outsider.”

“Khagan - you are no outsider.” Sadu laughed. “How can the Khagan be an outsider in their own lands? How can one who lives among us and aids us not be as one of the tribe?” she asked, then laughed again. “Enjoy this revelry. There will be a combat tournament tomorrow, and you may as well have a good night before I finally beat you!”

The night ten days after Petra had arrived was lively, the Dotharl tribe acting as carefree and energetic as she’d only ever seen them on the field of battle. She wasn’t entirely sure of the occasion but there was some kind of celebration going on. Nearly the whole tribe was out on the outskirts of the village, having cleared space for a proper bonfire, bringing food and drink to the celebration.

Petra was a little uneasy, feeling as if she was intruding. But Sadu insisted, so she went out and mingled with the others. She wasn’t so unusual a sight now in the tribe - she asked how some job or other had gone here, checking in on a pregnant woman she’d given a potion there. She checked if the food she’d cooked was good. If she wasn’t so different in appearance, she’d fit right in.

Or at least she thought that. By now, she wasn’t that different. Her skin had taken on a very dark shade, darker than could be ascribed to a tan, closer to coal. Her hair, normally green, was so pale it might have made a more mature woman look elderly. Even her scales - what she thought was what would visually distinguish her most from the Xaela-clan Dotharl tribe - had darkened, edging towards black. She hadn’t noticed a single change - they just skipped past her mind when she looked, and mirrors weren’t common in the Steppe.

She wore their clothes, was involved in their lives, and was even looking like them. An outside observer would wonder why she thought she was an outsider if they didn’t know who she was.

On drums and flutes and other instruments, a small group of Dotharl began to play music. “Tonight is the night we welcome an old friend…” said an older man, trying to gather the attention of the assembled Dotharl. It was Tahir - the man who had come asking for help days before, and the first one to suggest that Petra had reminded him of an old friend. The reason why everyone there called her Shar.

Suddenly she suspected she knew why she was allowed to be here. But oddly, it was really hard to feel embarrassed or bothered. It was… flattering.

Older men and women of the tribe began to speak, one after another, talking about their memories of Shar. One recounted a story of her trials to become a real Steppe Warrior to participate in her first Nadaam tournament. Some of the tribe’s religious figures danced in front of the fire as they did, some kind of symbolic reenactment.

Another spoke of her first flight on Yol-back; how ever brave Shar had gripped so tightly to her mount’s feathers for fear of falling, how she’d then let go when she saw the beauty of the Steppe from a bird’s eye view. Then her triumphs and tragedies in tournaments over the years, rising to prominence in the tribe as she settled into the role each Shar had played in the past.

There was something in those stories, something that Petra couldn’t quite understand but felt down there all the same. She wasn’t sure when she joined the dance, really - one moment she was watching, the next she was at the front.

The slow transformation that had been going through her sped up as she joined the dance she had no reason to know. Her skin, already darkened significantly, took on a blue tint as it settled on a matching dark-blue shade to that of many Dotharl. Her hair became a vibrant white, while her scales became pitch black.

The stories they told became her stories. When she had saved a child from a rampaging mammoth, when she’d gone abroad to find new healing techniques. The battles and trials she’d faced all through her last life were flowing into her through the song. She didn’t know them personally - they had been a past life. But she knew them because that was what the tribe remembered. And now, it was what Shar knew.

The last dance had been about her death. A peaceful one by Dotharl standards - for all her ferocity on the battlefield, it had been an illness that took her, the one foe she couldn’t truly fight. As Shar wiped sweat from her brow, taking a moment to catch her breath as the dance wound down, she saw Sadu looking at her approvingly from the crowd around them. Shar gave her a wide grin and a wave.

Sadu returned the smile. “Meet me at the Dusk Mother. We’ll ride out when the celebration is done.” she said. While Petra might not have clocked what she meant immediately, Shar certainly did. She’d be there.

-----

The “House of the Crooked Coin” was a site considered sacred to the Dotharl. In the mountains to the north of the Steppe, there was a cave, in which could be found a massive, jagged metal spike in the earth - a shard of Nhaama, the Dusk Mother, the Dotharl believed. It was where Dotharl went when they wished to end their cycle of reincarnation, to strike their names from the tribe when they wanted to finally rest. Petra knew the shard was actually an artifact of an ancient, globe-spanning empire - but Shar felt awed in the presence all the same.

This time, she didn’t wonder if she was allowed to be here. She did not question if an outsider was allowed - because Shar wasn’t one. She found herself kneeling down in front of the shard and the ravine it had carved into the cavern. Sadu was in front of her, smiling.

“This is not the first time one of our tribe has been reborn far away,” Sadu said, softer than Shar had heard her before. “Many wish to travel. To seek new and greater challenges in their new lives. But they always return to Dotharl Khaa.”

Something about her words were entrancing. Shar hung on to every syllable, listening closely. Something inside of her rebelled against the changes - but the Blessing of Light only protected against undesired influence on one’s aether, and by this point, Shar was anything but unwilling.

“Shar was an important leader in our tribe. Her presence is why we maintained dominance for so long despite the losses…” Sadu said, “And now that she’s returned… you’ve returned… we will be strong again.”

Something was in Sadu’s hands. In one hand was a small sliver of the shard - a piece of Nhaama that allowed the Khatun of the tribe to restore a Dotharl to their true form, if they reincarnated abroad. She didn’t understand how the shard worked, but it clearly had. In the other was a crystal - blue and white, the colors of the Dotharl, and glowing with memories. The high priestess of the Dotharl, the voice of the Dusk Mother. Shar’s stone.

“You once more join our tribe, and so it’s my duty to restore to you your memory stone. Do you accept your name, Shar?”

It was hardly a question. Shar had long stopped thinking of herself as Petra. And Sadu was being so… different, to her usual self. So hesitant. As if she wasn’t sure this was what she should be doing. Shar wanted nothing more than to make her feel better, to go back to the way she was.

In lieu of words, she took the stone, gripping Sadu’s hand as she did. The stone glowed, and memories filled into Shar’s mind, overtaking and replacing her old. She was Shar. She had always been Shar, high priestess of the Dotharl, the strongest tribe of the Steppe. Even if she wandered, to bring knowledge and seek challenge, she would always return. The very idea she could leave her home behind was offensive.

When Shar opened her now pale blue eyes, she gave Sadu a jaunty, confident smile. “Why so serious, Khatun? It’s as if we haven’t done this for each other, life after life. Do you need to go find something to kill?”

Sadu visibly relaxed, and returned the smile. “A contest, then? See who can hunt the most and greatest prey, to celebrate your return?”

“If you can even call a contest involving me by that name, yes.”

The pair of Dotharl left the cave behind, eager to continue their rivalry.

-----

The clash of steel and shouts of battle rang throughout the Steppe as the Nadaam was underway, a pillar of light marking the goal. The Mol had only won the previous event with aid from outside their tribe; without such help, they had elected to stay out of it, instead providing healers at the edges of the field to minimize loss of life. It was once again the kind of fight the Steppe always saw - a clash of the Dotharl and the Oronir.

The steppe crackled with aether as magic black and white rent the air, the earth, and the Dotharl’s foes. The Dotharl still lacked numbers compared to the Oronir - but they fought with a ferocity beyond any they had before, spurred on by the presence of their high priestess, who healed their wounds and sent them back to the fight with renewed vigor. The Dotharl - once thought to be a dying breed - showed their mettle, showed that they would not fall behind their eternal rivals.

It was a greater fight than Magnai, the leader of the Oronir, had expected. But the chosen people of the Sun would not be cowed. As they crested a hill overlooking the Ovoo, the great golden rune that would proclaim him Khagan, he turned to his warriors. “The Oronir will reclaim the stewardship of the Steppe!” he declared, “Without any outsiders to take the seat, we will take what is rightfully ours!” It was both challenge to the Dotharl, as they crested the hill opposite them, and a rally to his own troops.

The two forces charged at the same time, and a brutal melee began. Magnai cut through his foes towards the Ovoo, but when he found a gap in the fighting, he was suddenly paralyzed.

Across the field, a beautiful maiden of war walked. There was a grace in her step, and a calculating intelligence he never saw in the Dotharl; splitting her attention evenly between healing her allies and harming her foes. The high priestess of the Dotharl - and the Khagan of the Steppe - Shar.

He opened his mouth. This graceful warrior had to be his destined partner, the moon to his sun. He had seen her before of course - but she never looked quite so stunning as in the clamor of war, where even the most insurmountable odds never perturbed her.

The first syllables had hardly left his mouth when she noticed him. And smiled. He thought he had broken through somehow - but then she laughed. “Ha! Sadu, I think your ‘little sun’ has a crush!” Shar called.

“Of course he does, Shar,” The Khatun called back, not looking away from her own battles. “He loves nothing more than a woman who can break him in two! He’s probably pined for you since you beat him at the last Nadaam!”

Shar laughed again. “Ha! He was hardly a challenge with the Mol at my back - I had thought helping that prince was the only way I would get any enjoyment out of the Nadaam, but even that wasn’t enough. You don’t suppose he thinks he can win against me among my own people, does he?”

Magnai felt his face turn hot. His blood boiled, and he raised his axe.

“Ha! Worked up the spirit to hit a lady, have you?” Shar laughed. She turned her proper focus on him, a full staff in one hand and a shining sword in the other. “Come then! Maybe you’ve learned how to please a woman since our last bout!”