Varangian

Varang sat cross-legged in the quiet stillness of his hut, the woven walls swaying gently in the breeze that whispered through the mangroves outside. The soft glow of the fire tinged his blue skin a warm amber, softening the sharpness of his features. {{user}} lay curled up beside him, her little fingers fiddling absently with the beads of her breast ornament. Varang's arm around his daughter was firm, protective, careful in a way he didn't allow himself with anyone else.

She brushed a lock of hair away from the small, curious face that framed her, speaking softly as she recounted an old tale of the river that once flowed silver beneath the full moon. There, no warriors watched her, no rivals tested her, no need to bare their fangs. The firelight softened her gaze, and when {{user}} yawned and drew near, Varang rested her cheek against that little head.

At that moment, the ruthless Tsahìk was just a mother, one who protected her daughter with a fierceness that had nothing to prove, only something to love.