[Kutara]

Jhasato urged his horse through the thick undergrowth - Vezhof how he hated trees - scanning for any sign of his prey.  Normally, he wasn't the most astute tracker.  Normally, he wasn't stalking such a massive creature, holding such massive heat within, that it left a distinct trail of snapped branches and withered leaves in its wake.

A deep rumbling growl rippled through the steamy air.  To its credit, his horse merely paused, ears pinned, before yielding to its master's touch, moving towards the source of the sound.  Within moments, the beast was upon them, great leathery wings bludgeoning the treetops as monstrous fangs snapped an arrow's length from Jhasato's head.  He wheeled his horse about, guiding it with his knees and nocking an arrow into his bow in a single fluid motion, turning to launch the projectile at the pursuing dragon.  The gears mounted at either nocking point whirred into action, propelling the arrow between the thick scales.  He still felt...almost dirty, using the unfamiliar technology, but it was scarcely the strangest thing about this world.

His boldness earned him a burst of searing flame across his back, the acrid stink of burning hair and leather assaulting his nose.  He drove his mount into a wide circle, firing two more arrows in quick succession.  The dragon roared in defiance, leveling a small copse of trees with a lash of its barbed tail.  But a glint of red-black caught the sunlight: his arrows were finding their mark.

The dance of death continued as the sun passed its zenith, neither combatant yielding despite their growing weariness.  Bloodied and battered, the great beast attempted to take flight.  The Dothraki unsheathed the great curved arakh on his back and swung, shearing the leathery membrane of a wing from its body.  The dragon fell, turned, and roared.  Lunged for its opponent and, though it missed him with its fangs, knocked him from his horse with its massive head.  The horse bolted, and Jhasato swung upright from where he clung to the saddle.  Another fierce slash of his blade this time found the soft flesh beneath the beast's jaw.  Bathed in the sudden arterial spray, Jhasato pulled the horse to a halt as the dragon fell behind him, turning to survey his kill.  With a triumphant whoop, he leapt from the saddle, blade held ready for the task at hand.

The sun was already casting long shadows when Jhasato sat back on his heels, leaving a bloody streak as he mopped the sweat from his brow.  Large cuts of meat lay heaped atop the tattered remains of a wing; several large hides were bundled in a nearby stack.  "<What do you think?  Can you carry all this?>" he asked the horse with a laugh.  The horse simply looked up from its grazing, nickered, and went back to its dinner.

Night was beginning to fall by the time Jhasato trudged the familiar streets of Everdale beside his horse, both of them laden with meat and hides, coated with blood and dust and nearly a solid dull rust color...until a colorful splash of purple and blue launched itself at his face.  "Oh! You got them?  Thank you!  I was beginning to wonder, you took so long..."  Jhasato merely grunted, quietly unloading the horse and himself.  Nova, the resident sylph, chattered away, bobbing excitedly in the air one moment and perching on his blood-crusted shoulder the next.  At this distance, it was much easier to distinguish her features, tiny and perfect.  She looked less like an insect, more like a woman. "...will make the best armor ever!"  She paused, looking him over as if for the first time.  "You stink.  Go bathe."

In another world, none but his khal would dare command him so boldly.  In another world, insects were not befriended, but trampled underhoof as the warriors rode to battle.  In this world, he headed silently to the bath house, a grin just visible beneath his beard.

[Kutara]

Wind rippled over the endless expanse of grass, the seedheads bowing in sibilant waves.  Jhasato stood upon a small rise, watching as an enormous group of riders thundered towards him.  They were Dothraki, by their dress and riding style, though their faces were obscured by dust and the haze of heat.  The man at the head of the khalasar pulled his horse to a stop before Jhasato.  Without a word, the stranger placed a closed fist to his chest and gave a nod.  They had not been coming for Jhasato; they were coming for Jhasato.

In a flash, he was astride his steed, a brilliant chestnut stallion as fiery as his own spirit, leading his warriors across the great grass sea.  Outlying settlements fell before their might, the screams of their prey ringing in Jhasato's ears like music.  He galloped through the now-burning ruins of the village, leaping through the flames, cutting down any who still stood to fight.  A thatched roof nearby collapsed from the fire, causing a female voice to cry out from within.  He leapt from his mount and shouldered his way through the debris; no sense letting a potential slave burn to death.  A weak cough came from a pile of smoldering wood.  Jhasato lifted a post, nearly dropping it again as he uncovered a familiar blue and purple wing.  The little sylph's words were muffled, distorted, though pained as he lifted her free and held her to his chest.  A crack of splintering wood came from above; he shielded her with his body as best he could, burning thatch and timbers crashing down atop them...

---

Jhasato woke as a wet clump of hay plopped onto his face.  He opened one bleary eye to regard the cow standing over him, curious of her pasture's newest addition.  The first fingers of dawn were only just streaming over the horizon - was the sun always that bright? - and a breeze rustled the grass around him, sounding for all the world like the Great Dothraki Sea of his homeland.

He bolted upright, causing his head to reel and startling the cow into grazing elsewhere.  Where was his horse?  More importantly, had he fallen?  But no, his horse was grazing peacefully nearby, and the hides and fur that served as his saddle were folded upon a nearby rock.  A mostly-empty bottle leaned haphazardly against the rock.  Jhasato didn't know the name of the clear liquid that burned all the way down, but he knew he'd never woken in a strange field after a night of drinking lamekh.

He lay back once more, hands over his eyes as his thoughts, well, stumbled over one another more than raced.  His dream had felt so real, so much like his life before, when he rode wild and free with his khalasar.  So unlike now, when his world involved bringing horses to town for others, tavern gatherings (which weren't too bad, he had to admit), and - he groaned aloud - diplomacy.  He lifted one hand to regard the cow, still grazing.  How different it was from the great beasts that roamed the moors to the south, their horns curved and sharp as any arakh to fend off the bird-women who hunted there.  He turned his gaze downward, to the slight tummy forming, and poked it with a finger.  Perhaps he was becoming like this creature.  Slow, fat, complacent.  Domesticated.

He rolled to his feet, nearly retching as his stomach protested the movement.  Collecting his saddle and his horse, Jhasato trudged the short distance to where the buildings turned to sandstone, where he had carved out a living in this strange world.  He closed the heavy wood door, the four stone walls instantly pressing in around him.  A flash of purple and blue caught his eye; Nova had immediately noticed his return and flitted down the ladder, diving at him and shifting in midair to take human form.  He caught her, easily, even 'bigger' she was still tiny, and held her close.

"Where were you?" she asked, pulling back to look him over for any visible injuries "...gone all night...so worried..." He let her fuss over him for but a moment before sweeping her into a warm embrace, kissing her forehead before propping his chin atop her head.

"Anha re-...sleep mra field.  San ohazho...many drink."  She tensed at his words but nodded, resting her cheek against his chest.  He could feel the tightness of her shoulders relax in his hands.  "Kisha sleep proper ajjin?"  Another nod from her, and he scooped her against him in one arm.  She clung to him as he scaled the ladder to the sleeping quarters.  Domestication, it occurred to him, wasn't always a terrible thing, necessarily.  Tame creatures had others looking out for them, after all.  But beyond the arched stone windows, the wind still whispered through the grasses, calling to him.

[Cele]

She tried not to hide her concern, not hoovering too close or for too long. Like his venerated horses, Jhasato had the natural inclination to spook when pressed too hard outside of his comfort zone. He would not say it but she knew he was afraid of losing himself in this new world, of forgetting his people and his home. That was why he was so stubborn, why he clung doggedly to the ways of his tribesmen.
 
Nothing about the man was fragile, except perhaps his pride, so she did her best not to worry or nag or fret over him but on nights when his skin was black with bruises and the iron smell of blood turned her stomach she wanted to make it better. He refused, as always, and her patience was thin enough that lost control for a moment.
 
“So there are no healers in your people? The wives of your Khal did not tend his wounds after battle?”
 
The mountain of a man looked tired as he leaned back further against the wall, his expression shifting sheepishly.
 
“Anha vos Khal.”
 
Nova frowned a little before leaning forward and pressing a kiss against his cheek.
 
“You’re my Khal.”

[Kutara]

Jhasato sat tall astride his horse, once more standing upon an endless expanse of grassland, the wind causing it to ripple in sibilant waves.  Almost an endless expanse, for jutting from the horizon was a great mountain, rising from the surrounding sea of grass.  Hope wrestled with doubt in his mind: could it truly be the Mother of Mountains? The sacred land of his homeland?  He gave his mount a sharp kick with his heels, sending it thundering across the plain.

Blood tinted the foam in the corners of his stallion’s lips pale crimson and still the rider urged him faster.  They crested a small rise, only to spook a herd of horses, every color imaginable swirling around them.  He had nearly reached the base of the Mountain when he saw him: another Dothraki warrior, curved arakh gleaming in the sun where it rested upon his shoulder.

Jhasato pulled short and lifted his bare hand, palm out in greeting. “M’athchomaroon, gaezo!” Greetings, brother.  The warrior twisted to face Jhasato from astride his horse, placing a closed fist against his chest and leaning forward slightly, as if greeting a Khal.  He smiled as he straightened, opening his mouth to speak, but no words came.  Instead, he and his steed turned a dull brown before dissolving away into chaff on the wind.  A cold dread gripped Jhasato, and he leapt from his exhausted mount to stride into the collection of tents at the base of the mountain.  Every person he encountered was the same, from the small children playing with sticks, the women carrying laden baskets, the men gambling with a pair of human knucklebones.  All paused, greeted him as befitting a Khal, and then scattered in the wind.  In the distance, the whinny of the horses grew indistinct; he turned his gaze up, to the face of the mountain, only to be confronted by the stone walls of a city carved into the mountainside.  A gust of wind swirled around him, the tents flapping frantically before similarly dissolving away, leaving Jhasato alone at the foot of the mountain.  The wind howled, raging, and as he shielded himself against it, his own hands began to dim and dissolve away into grass.

- - -

Jhasato awoke coated in a sheen of cold sweat.  Despite the pitch black surrounding him, he could smell the stone walls pressing in around him on all sides.  He slipped from the furs, careful not to rouse the woman sleeping beside him, and stepped out into the open night air.

He slid down to sit on the cool stone, his back against the wall, and looked up at the night sky.  The tiny fires of the Great Stallion’s khalasar glittered across the inky Night Lands.  The Moon hid her face this night; perhaps she had gone to lie with her husband the Sun, but her absence left only the stars to light the sky.  The fallen Dothraki of the past...they were the only Dothraki he had in this world.  There was no doubt he had met others who came close.  The woman sleeping within, who possessed a ferocity in battle like he had seldom seen beyond his people; the dark-skinned woman who had sat engrossed with each story or bit of knowledge he had shared; the man with hair like fire, who dove headlong into a nest of dragons with the spirit of the craziest bloodrider....

The stars winked back at him, their fires cold and distant.  Perhaps, he mused, it was time for him to join the only other Dothraki in this world.  He quickly shook such weak thoughts from his mind, standing abruptly and turning to splash cold water in his face.  He crept down the ladder and retrieved his horse, bridling and saddling the stallion by touch.  He could not think with stone walls around him, at the same time he could think of nothing but the mountain in his dream.  And so, once clear of the oppressive buildings, he mounted up and did what he was born to do: he rode.