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Neytiri’s not fully bothered by the beads of metal she has encircling her neck.
Dangling from her chest and hovering just above the stream is the small, human-made device, beeping steadily as she utilizes the reflection given to her by the water. The woman has done swift work on the paint to cover her face. Half red, half black, and accompanied by two white stripes stroked along her cheekbones.
Sa'ata waits close by, rumbling softly within her throat often enough. Neytiri doesn't need tsaheylu to feel her mount’s eagerness, and it has brought a similar-feeling smile to her own face. When she makes her way over to her, she holds two wooden bowls in her hands, filled with night and fire.
Neytiri’s purple, pendulous top has been traded for thin wraps binding her breasts. Red is painted amongst her elbows and upper arms. This had been the second thing the woman did after causing an analogous color to ooze out of the three bodies that will forever lie still due to her arrows. What she had first done was blend her brighter blue skin with ash so it now looks nearly identical to theirs.
When snuffing them out within a number of seconds, all she hoped was that at least one of them was one of her favorites.
Neytiri sets one bowl on the ground, wincing slightly from the ache still ingrained in her shoulder, and raises back up, dipping her fingers into the black paint. The woman starts along the skin of Sa’ata’s neck, her mount shivering at first contact.
It brings a chuckle out of Neytiri.
“Does that tickle?” She mumbles as she carries on.
The ikran retaliates with a huff through her nostrils before gently nudging the side of the woman’s head with her own.
“Careful, it’s still wet, my girl…” Neytiri lightly scolds, and when she’s done there, she sticks her fingers back into the bowl to begin near two of the banshee’s eyes. Around Iris’ that share the same shade as hers, eyes that see things the same way she does, no neural connection required.
Neytiri decorates them like their many bright stars, radiant in night’s sky.
Sa’ata shivers again with a grumble when the woman’s fingers brush near the queue and in Neytiri’s own retaliation, takes hold of the animal’s long jaw and plants a kiss on the top center of her head, currently bare. The ikran’s voice falls into a small purr. Next is the wings and she carefully hunches over for her hands to slide in long strides.
The gadget continues against the woman’s skin, still beeping ever so steadily, its red light keeping the same rhythm.
There is little doubt in her mind that Spider has been taken to one of their labs, being confined and prodded with various instruments by sky people in their long, white, sterile coats. They will be studying the mycelium, as Norm called it, flourishing in his body that is simply the work of their great mother.
It doesn’t matter that Spider is borderline an adult. With him being the same height as Tuk, she will hurl him on the back of Sa’ata when she finds him as if he were the same age as her too. With no hesitation she will take him. Away from this spiritless city as well as from his biological creator because that fiend doesn't deserve the privilege of being thought of as a father to anyone.
The woman had already claimed the boy, marking him outwardly on that sinking ship right after Nete—her first born had been torn away from her. She had done it in front of Quartich, no less, and she will perform as many public displays of ownership as she needs to to drive it through the demon’s demented mind. Spider is not his and never will be.
He definitely won’t be killed anytime soon, if at all. Quartich will definitely see to that.
She believes Jake is another story in regard to where he’s being held. It’s plausible he could be in a cell being tortured for what other information they seek. Or maybe even right next to Spider, subdued alongside the precarious body of their son.
They may want to see if the Omatikaya’s scientists have done any adjustments to his anatomy. Even with them most likely knowing her mate has a permanently transferred consciousness, she knows to never put it past the RDA to simply check or to do it just because.
Still, she believes he will be kept around for a while too. They wouldn't have gone through all this trouble just to get rid of them so soon; they’ll utilize them as much as they can. If not for them, then for Quartich. He would probably see to that as well. Even if it has become the sole purpose of getting to have her mate close and at his perverse mercy.
Neytiri mulls over all the ways one could strip off the flesh from a demon’s bones. A demon as well as his paramour. She still owed that witch for the punctured lung and a soreness that still hasn’t fully left her shoulder nor the upper region of her chest.
Sa’ata wants another round too, with her and that mount of her’s that appeared similar to an ikran yet still vastly different. And Neytiri wants to give her that just as much as she wants to take it for herself.
Lastly, the bowl of red is still filled decently while the others near empty. Neytiri walks back around to stand in front of Sa’ata’s head and begins dyeing the bottom of her cheeks, upper jaw, and the bridge.
A minute or two goes by, and there’s still enough red paint left, yet Neytiri slowly crouches down, dipping her fingers into a small pond of blood that has trailed near them from the closest corpse, and raises back up.
If one were to look closely, the difference in shade could be seen when she adds it to the mix. A little clumpier too against the smooth colorant. The corners of her mouth curl up at the image before her as she colors.
Pulling back, the crimson stands out on ashen fingers, some residue left on them.
Neytiri then sticks two in her mouth.
She’s met with a slight tinge on her tongue from the small amount. It’s not half bad, she thinks, even with the hint of chalky taste there too; she’d have to have more to properly determine, though. Sticking her smudged fingers back into the bowl, she goes to finish up embellishing her girl.
When the woman notices Sa’ata looking at her intently, she crouches down for some more when she’s done, no sudden pain or noticeable ache. Standing back up, she holds up her digits, each one covered in Mangkwan blood.
“Want some?” She asks in the affectionate tone she’d use when offering a treat.
Similar to her, Sa’ata doesn’t waver, wrapping her long, rough tongue around three of the Omatikayan’s fingers and licking them up. The ikran hums deeply as she consumes.
“It tastes like the filth that they are, doesn’t it?” Neytiri smirks before lapping and sucking up the leftovers her mount left behind and the full course missed on the thumb, blood as well as two mixtures of saliva. With the slightly greater amount, it brings a little more effort to get it down, the thick substance eventually sliding down her throat.
She feels the residue that’s left on her lips when she pulls them out of her mouth. Fortunately, the red paint of one of the raiders she killed was on the bottom half of the face. So it won’t really stand out.
It isn't half bad, the woman decides, her tongue running along the front of her teeth.
It would be in Neytiri’s best interest to steer them clear of pretty much all Mangkwan when they infiltrate the base’s walls. She doesn’t put the security operation’s perceptiveness on much of a pedestal in regard to their familiarity with their new friends, but for the Mangkwan, she’s not sure she’ll be as artful.
The woman checks the saddle on Sa’ata, making sure the straps are pulled snug around her belly. She counts the leftover arrows by their tails in the quiver. They’re still there, most of them tipped with nice little surprises on their heads.
She hopes the residents of this city will like them.
After it’s all said and done, Neytiri grabs her braid to connect. She and her ikran soon begin dotingly feeding off each other without the presence of teeth. The two then propel off the ground, Sa’ata’s ravishing, strong wings lifting them up into the sky.
Leaving the forest, all there is are plains where trees, plants, and other flora have been ripped up, cut down, or destroyed entirely by fire. Neytiri’s eyes mostly rest on the approaching city, and all it does is bubble up next to all the other ill will feelings that already do so within her heart.
One hand on her mount’s neural queue, she holds the device up off her chest with the other for scanners manufactured along their perimeters. They will digitally survey them soon if they are not already doing so.
Well, they’re ready to be let in. Ready to prowl and then wreck.
Throughout most of her life metal, theirs, only seemed to bring her death and pain (her ears would soon falter just at the touch). She never could have imagined a transmitter made by them would ever serve as a lifeline (her neck currently ringed with its chain). But it’s going to allow them through, their vengeance as well, and give her Jake and their little Spider back.
So she doesn’t believe she’ll mind wearing it for a bit.