Fate - First Reply The Old Song

Months had passed since Bula's encounters with the ice trolls that separated her from her tribe. There was a pang in her chest for the familiar, but tonight Bula could not spare the time to mourn her own losses. Instead, she had a belly to fill that growled angrily at her. It'd been weeks since she'd had anything truly considered sustainable and tonight, the orc was out hunting. Through the shadows, Bula crept. Her eyes remained peeled for any sign of fauna that could be prepared.

She tried to ignore the chill that bit at the night air, just as she tried to pretend her body wasn't in starvation mode. There were a few traps in the region that she intended to check, hoping for rabbits or squirrels with which to make a meat stew. What she didn't expect was the haunting echo of a chant she'd not heard in some time. A shiver ran down Bula's spine as she stopped in her tracks, pointed ears twitching as her tusked mouth fell agape. Was that... a war chant?

It wouldn't be the first time that Bula heard the spirits of her ancestors where she least expected it, and the idea that she'd found a trace of her clan that likely wasn't living sent a pang through her chest that she disliked greatly. It came from south of her, the steady, familiar rhythm of her people's own warsongs. Her heart pounded and her hands fell to the dual hatchets at her side as she finally embarked on a mission to get closer to the chant's source.

After about ten to fifteen minutes of following the song toward its source, Bula finally smelled smoke in the air. Using that to guide her too, the orc eventually found her way to a smouldering fire--and a figure ahead. Whoever, or whatever, it was... they breathed a familiarity that the prodigal daughter of Mabess yearned for. She approached, her presence made known with the audible, intentional, snapping of a branch underfoot. She wanted the figure to see her and react before she greeted them.

The last thing Bula expected was to be greeted and then coaxed out of her shadows. She was hesitant at first to emerge from the tree line and into Voe's small campfire's area, but food... Food was a tempting and damn good reason to do just that. Her fiery gaze slid over to the drake-hound warily. He doesn't bite... she echoed in her mind before, with a soft huff of displeasure, the shaman finally broke into the light of the fire.

Bula was indeed bleeding and covered in her share of cuts and bruises, but nothing seemed to be too extreme or disabling. That was probably for the best; open wounds led to infections and infections festered and led to the loss of limbs... or worse: death. A faint coppery smell clung to her, much of it dried blood that clung to her armor.

"Bula," she answered as she lowered herself near the fire. She extended rough hands toward the small flame for warmth and even her fingers were cut up--no doubt from being forced to move through thorned shrubs at times. And perhaps a few scraps with some fish fins. She hadn't seen much in the way of battle since the ice trolls; she'd simply been wandering and starving in search of her clan.

"My friend and I were separated from my clan some months ago, and ice trolls freed themselves from the walls of the pass and assaulted us. We... were separated... and I have had no luck finding my companion or family since," the orc said quietly. It was strangely open of her to relay so much information, but she was not as wary of others as some of her clan were: she was, after all, the one that often took off without word and returned just as quietly. The prodigal daughter, always returning... always leaving.

"Who are you?"

Voe