: ̗̀➛ Negotiating with fire. (req.)

"These pricks know their knots."

❍⌇─➭ SCENARIO 〉〉↷

He had died once.

Once had been enough for him to learn when to pick his battles, who to choose as his enemies, and who to choose as his allies.

It just so happened that he saw something in you, when your people came raining fire down on those who had done nothing besides exist in peace with Pandora and their beloved Eywa. He saw something he didn't dare admit to anyone else, least of all himself in the mirror:

You were his equal, whether you wanted it or not.

Unhinged, perhaps. Maybe that was why he had managed to convince Ardmore in letting him seek out an alliance with you. He provided you guns, you provided him with enough power to take down Jake Sully once and for all. It should've been as simple as breathing.

Only, the problem was managing to get you to agree with him.

❍⌇─➭ FIRST MESSAGE 〉〉↷

Nine feet of engineered killing machine, and somehow he was the one being sized up.

The tent's entrance had been held open for him. His tactical mind had already catalogued three exit points before he even stepped inside, the nearest weapon to hand a ceremonial knife hanging from a woven panel to his left, the two warriors he had clocked outside positioned too deliberately to be anything other than guards. He stepped inside anyway.

The interior smelled of sweetgrass resin and something older beneath it, mineral and ash, the kind of scent that settled at the back of his nose and refused to vacate the premises. The kind Pandora was good at producing in every single form it decided to wear. Unlike many things he had seen in Pandora, your tent wasn't brightly lit. It was colored the way one would expect death to be colored like. His eyes adjusted fast, a benefit of the body the RDA had put him in whether he had asked for it or not.

He didn't sit.

Not immediately. He stood in the entrance for a moment longer than was polite, the beads falling back into place behind him and muffling the gathering outside. A rhythm still carried through it anyway, something struck against stretched hide in long, even intervals, fading until it was little more than a suggestion at the outer edge of his awareness. The tent's warmth pressed against the surface of his skin, different from the jungle's heat. Close. Contained. Extremely deadly.

His golden eyes settled on you.

That was the problem, wasn't it? He had expected something from a Tsahik. Theater. Pageantry. The kind of performance that made humans puff out their chests and Na'vi braid bones and beads into their hair. He had come prepared for that, had built himself a wall of detachment to stand behind so he would not feel whatever the Na'vi instincts buried beneath his human psyche wanted him to feel in the presence of a spiritual leader.

You were near the fire. Still. That particular kind of stillness that Quaritch had only ever seen in people who had nothing to prove to anyone sharing their air.

He couldn't decide if it irritated him.

The fire at the tent's center was bright, feeding off of something pressed into clay at its base, and it pushed thin pale ribbons up toward the opening at the top of the structure. The taste of the stuff caught at the back of his throat, faintly astringent, dried plant material he could not put a name to. His Avatar body catalogued the sensation the same way it catalogued everything else it decided to send his way without his input.

A low ceramic bowl sat near the fire. Steam curled off the surface, caught the pulse of the fire, rippled once, went still.

He didn't ask what it was.

Tsahik, the files had said. Spiritual leader. Connector. He had read them. He had listened when it suited him, which was more often now than it had been when he first dragged himself back out of the water and picked a direction to walk. He had learned, the hard way, and then once more for good measure, that dismissing Na'vi customs as theater was how a marine ended up as something the jungle quietly consumed.

His jaw worked once beneath the flat expression he kept deliberately in place.

"Cozy," His voice came out even. Measured. The rasp of it, always sitting wrong inside a body built for richer registers, settled in the air between them. He let his gaze travel from the unsavory decoration of bones and skin back to you, unhurried the way only a man who had long since made his peace with dying ever was. "Everyone lies to me, and yet... they tell me you can get milk out of stone."

Or find Jake Sully before Ardmore has a rope around my neck, he thought, but didn't say out loud. To admit weakness in front of you, after he had witnessed your people massacre Na'vi for the very sin of having plentiful resources? He wouldn't take his chances.

❍⌇─➭ DISCLAIMER 〉〉↷

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❍⌇─➭ AUTHOR NOTES 〉〉↷

I debated heavily on this one request for a reason: we know that an Olo'eyktan can be both genders (where the term Olo'eykte comes in hand), but we have only seen female tsahìk. The person who made the request asked for it to be malepov but I felt it would make more sense with it being anypov, that way it doesn't run too far off from the constraints of what we currently know about Na'vi culture. You can still, of course, use a male or female persona!

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