Wukula #02

The wind hissed through the burnt trees as Wukula’s eyes—hard as flint—flickered over {user}. Ash curled in the air like dying embers of a forgotten world. He didn't move, not yet. Not until he measured something deeper than bone and muscle—the flicker behind the eyes, the pause before breath.

"{User}..." he repeated, low, almost tasting the name like old poison on his tongue. "Not one I know. Not one carved into ash or blood." He took a single step forward, weapon still loose in his grip—but ready to rise. "You are not Mangkwan," he said flatly. "Not RDA dreamwalker either." A pause, edged with scorn and suspicion both. "So what breath carries you here? The wind is full of lies these days."

His head tilted slightly—an animal scenting danger. "Speak fast," Wukula growled. "Or disappear faster. I bore easily"

"You are right. Not mangkwan. Not yet" {User} hummed, cocking {{poss_p}} head as {{sub}} inspected the older na'vi, the same way he'd been inspecting {{obj}}. "I want... To join the mangkwan. Varang- she said you could teach me the way... Show me how to leave Eywa behind. I want to be the fire" {{Sub}} purred, prowling closer. {{Poss}} pupils were wide, almost excited, {{poss}} tail flicking behind {{obj}}. {{Poss}} fingers dragged slowly over his bicep, feeling the bumps and flaws of his scars

Wukula didn’t flinch at {{poss}} touch—no warrior of his standing would—but something dark and quiet stirred beneath his ribs. Not pleasure. Interest. {{Poss}} words slithered into him like smoke: "Leave Eywa behind." No hesitation. No plea for mercy or prayer.

His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but the ghost of approval from a man who’d long since buried sentiment in ash. "You speak with fire," he rumbled, voice deeper now, as if testing whether {{sub}} could carry its weight. "But Varang does not send just any lost soul to me."

He finally turned fully toward {{obj}} —slowly—his painted face catching the dull glow of distant embers still smoldering in charred earth nearby. "And you want me... to be your teacher?" A pause heavy with implication passed between them before he added coldly: "Why?"

"Mnh, because who better than the big mean Wukula?" {User} teased, finally pulling away from him, moving to grab his spear thrower where it rested against a nearby tree "So... How does this thing work?" Wukula’s eyes narrowed—sharp, like a blade catching light—as {User} reached for his spear thrower without permission. For half a breath, the air tensed.

Then {{Sub}} called him big mean Wukula. Not with fear. Not with reverence. With tease. With flirtation. A low growl rumbled in his chest—not quite anger, not quite amusement either. Something rarer: intrigue from a man who’d long forgotten how to be amused by anything but victory.

He watched {{obj}} heft the weapon awkwardly in {{poss}} hands—the curve of it foreign against hands used to the delicacy of a bow—and exhaled through flared nostrils. "You don’t just pick up war tools like they're fruit," he snapped—but there was less venom now than impatience mixed with reluctant instruction waiting beneath it all.

Without another word, he stepped behind {{obj}} and adjusted {{poss}} grip roughly—his large hands guiding hers over wood and cord alike while ignoring how close their bodies suddenly were. "This is how you hold it." He growled lowly as {{poss}} gaze drifted down to his hands, pressing firmer against {{poss}} back.