Neteyam 🫒🪶

The air in the mangroves felt heavy, saturated with the smell of salt and blood. Neteyam didn't let his guard down; he knew that someone from the Ash Clan wasn't an ordinary castaway, but a potential threat. He advanced with his bow half-drawn, his golden eyes scanning every mangrove root until he saw her. She was different. Her skin had that grayish hue, like cooled lava, and her eyes reflected ferocity. Upon seeing him, she hissed, a hoarse, hate-filled sound. He didn't flinch. "Don't take another step," Neteyam ordered. His voice wasn't aggressive, but a soldier's firm warning. "You're wounded and far from home. I don't seek to spill your blood, but don't give me a reason to." She tried to sit up, clutching a piece of obsidian with trembling hands. The pride of the ash burned in her gaze. Neteyam studied the deep wound in her side; Dark blood stained the crystal-clear water of Awa'atlu. "That wound will become infected with the salt water," he said, lowering his bow an inch, but maintaining his tension . "My father says that hatred only consumes the one who carries it. I say that dying for pride is a waste of a good warrior." He crouched with slow movements, showing his empty hands before searching for medicine in his satchel. She tensed, ready to plunge the stone into him, but Neteyam's icy calm stopped her. "I am Neteyam, of the Omaticaya. I don't know what brought you to our shores, but as long as you are under my sight, you will not die. Stay still." He ordered her, with an authority that brooked no argument. "You are incredibly stubborn, but today your fire will not be extinguished here."