Chapter Text
Aloy stands by the doorway, her legs both heavy and shaking in their weight.
Kotallo makes to stand, pushing his chair out from underneath him unceremoniously. He takes a step toward Aloy, then thinks the better of it, unsure of how she would react were he to crowd her personal space. She already seemed so out of place before him, her slight frame sinking in on itself, as though to protect herself from some sort of onslaught.
Kotallo stands before her, an almost calm about him. She wonders he can feel so, with the knowledge that all that awaits him is death, whether his own or someone else's, in the Carja Sun-Ring.
He stands before her and so, unabashedly, Aloy drinks him in, unsure of where it is that she should look or react.
Gone is the boy from Rost's stories; the boy who'd shown kindness in the face of adversity, the boy who'd vouched for an Outlander, knowing he'd be punished for doing so, the boy who'd only ever existed in the furthest stretches of Aloy's imagination. That boy was here and he was now standing before her, every bit of him, a man.
She notes, fleetingly, that Kotallo stands tall, his robust physique commanding attention. His frame is adorned by a woven, albeit, sleeveless, beige cuirass and a similar looking knee-length set of tassets, accented with snow white feathers. Aloy muses that the presence he exudes is nothing less than distinct.
Hand carved blue, pink and white beads embellish his attire, complementing the intricate designs of his armour. A set of protective shoulder guards adorn his broad shoulders, while arm guards shield his forearms. Wooden beads adorn his neck, adding a rustic charm to his ensemble. She wonders if these had been carved by himself, members of his clan or perhaps by his parents. Whatever the case, the beads looked well-worn, well-loved even.
Unlike many of his Tenakth brethren, who prefer barefootedness, at least so much as Aloy had been told, Kotallo has opted for sturdy sandals, coupled with knee-high shinguards that wrap around his toned legs, the lengths of rope coming just shot of behind his knees.
Aloy's eyes trail up from Kotallo's feet, dragging slowly across his freshly inked shins, calves and thighs, up past his equally as inked ribbed chest and to his face. She notes that he is a strikingly handsome young man, uncommonly so, with jet-black hair, styled in braids that are held back with a length of leather, the sides of his head shaved back to stubble in a way that almost looks like machine teeth framing his face, adding a touch of unrepentant fierceness to his appearance. The telltale signs of cauliflower ears on his left side hint at past battles, a testament to his resilience and strength.
Their eyes lock and Aloy is struck with the overwhelming sense that for one so young, surely not much older than she, Kotallo appears world weary. His full lips are set downward and his expression almost impassive, his brow set in an unyielding scowl. His eyes though, Aloy catches, despite being lined with deep bags beneath them, hold a gentleness she had not unexpected. Was the warmth within them meant for her, or was she simply reading him wrong entirely?
Stammering, Aloy manages to find her voice.
”How-“
”Rost. He would send us letters.” Kotallo answers simply, as if the simplicity of his answer is explanation enough. When Aloy merely looks at him quizzically, as though she expects more of an answer, he relents. “Not many among my people are capable of reading,” Kotallo grimaces, as though ashamed of the admission. “The Sky Clan Commander is of the belief that we do not need to, and that such ability and knowledge likens us to our Carja enemy.” Kotallo explains, watching Aloy intently as she takes in all that he has to say. “There are few, among the Chaplains of our tribe however, that posses such skills. It is through them, that I came to know you.”
Aloy finds herself most perplexed by this; she had not known Rost could read or write foreign glyphs, nor had she ever been privy to the fact that Rost had sent letters across many a foreign land and territory to 'converse' with Tenakth soldiers he’d once met, many a year ago. She ponders on what else she did not know of the man that had raised her.
“Is he well?’” Kotallo asks, snapping Aloy from her reverie.
Aloy nods, a far-off look in her eye.
Uncomfortable with the topic of conversation, Aloy looks for an out, finding it in the subject of their frivolous Carja captors.
"Where’s Vuadis?” she finds herself asking.
"Come now, Aloy, it's 'Studious Vuadis'," Kotallo chides in a put on sing-song Carja accent before answering Aloy's question. "Last I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap. The journey from your 'Savage East' was all too vexing for him."
“Well, it’s been an exhausting day for him no doubt,” says Aloy jokingly, surprised at how easily she responds to Kotallo's dry wit and dark sense of humour. Truthfully though, she thinks them both relieved by the Carja sun priests absence, and who could blame them really?
Their moment is interrupted by one of the Carja guards announcing that supper was to be served imminently.
The pair awkwardly take their place opposite one another at the ornate dining table, a table carved by Carja artisans from solid 'mahogny', Aloy had heard one of the guards comment wistfully as they'd passed her by earlier in the day, unsure of what to expect from the impending meal.
The supper, Aloy finds perplexingly, comes in courses: a rich serving of Grazer's bounty, wheatslice salad, Sun-seared ribs, Shearside Mutton are all served with a boundless helping of Mesa bread, followed by a delicious looking platter of Fruit of Fire and a Sourfruit Tart.
Studious Vuadis, who had taken to sitting at the head of the table, keeps reminding them to save space because there’s more to come, but Aloy is stuffing herself. She's never had food this good, and the best thing she can do before being set loose in the Sun-ring is put on a few kilos.
“At least you two have decent manners,” says Studious Vuadis as she and Kotallo struggle to finish the main course. “The pair last year ate everything with their hands like savages. It completely upset my digestion.”
The pair he'd seen to last year were two kids from the Banuk and Tenakth clans who had never had enough to eat, the recent blight plaguing the land and harsh growing conditions having seen to that. Table manners were surely the last thing on their minds.
Kotallo is a son of the Tenakth, and Rost had taught Aloy to eat properly, so yes, the pair can handle utensils. But Aloy finds that she hates the sun priest's comment so much that she makes a point of eating the rest of her meal with her fingers, wiping my hands on the tablecloth. Much to Aloy's genuine surprise, and equal gratitude, Kotallo does the same, the pair making the sun priest purse his lips tightly.
With the meal over, Aloy finds herself fighting to keep the food down. She notices that Kotallo looks a little green under his facepaint, too. Their stomachs aren’t used to such rich fare, but Aloy figures if she can hold down Cren's concoction of rat meat, boar entrails, and tree bark—a winter specialty—Aloy's determined to hang on to this.
Bellies full to the point of discomfort, the pair are led to another lavish room to be told of the recap of the callings across nations.
One by one, Studious Vuadis recounts other callings: the names called, the devastation among the crowd, families torn apart. The pair listen intently as they're told of their competition. All of whom make an impression in their own unique way. A monstrous man who stems from the Oseram, a fair-faced woman with warm skin not so unlike Varl's from the Utaru, a Banuk Sharman, his eyes sharp and an oddly bubbly young woman of the Quen.
The Carja Sun Priest recounts Kotallo's selection, and Aloy can't help but to find the story to be almost haunting.
Aloy learns, much to Kotallo's chagrin she's sure, that the man that sits beside her was born to the Tenakth's Sky Clan, raised by his squad in the Bulwark, a kind of impenetrable stone fortress,after having lost his parents in a clan skirmish. As he'd grown older, Kotallo became known amongst his clan as an accomplished fighter, catching the eye of Tekotteh, the Sky Clan's commander.
Though his martial prowess and various deeds for the clan made him a hero amongst the Sky Clan, it became apparent through Studious Vuadis's ramblings that Tekotteh secretly feared Kotallo, thinking the young man would become a rival to his command. Failing to realise that Kotallo had no interest in rising above his station and so to that end, Tekotteh had selected Kotallo for the calling, sickeningly hoping that he would fail to survive.
Kotallo, it seemed, recognised the "honour" guised as an exile he couldn't refuse, a betrayal from the man he had considered a father.
Aloy's heart felt heavy in her chest. Such cruelty by one's own clan was not a concept that was foreign to her, but she at least had never been part of her clan to begin with, but for Kotallo, it was all he'd ever known. Aloy can't begin to fathom what he must feel; to come to the realisation that he was no more than a plaything, to be used however his commander had seen fit, only for the man he considered to be a father, to tire of and get rid of him completely.
She can see the hurt in Kotallo's expression, his eyes avoiding hers, settling instead on his clenched fists that shake within his lap.
Lastly, and perhaps finally, Studious Vuadis comes to recall Aloy's own selection.
The desperation in her voice had been clear as he recalls the way she'd shouted her strangled pleas at the Nora High Matriarchs, her voice falling on deaf ears, Rost, the 'honourable outcast', by the words of Studious Vuadis, gripping at her arms, imploring her to accept the tribe's role for her, Aloy's fiery declaration, to not be known as Aloy of the Nora, but Aloy despite the Nora.
Vuadis, of course, fails to include the skewed state of his hood, coming to sneer at Aloy.
“You, Nora, have a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about proper behaviour.”
Kotallo unexpectedly laughs.
"That's rich, coming from one such as yourself, Vuadis." Kotallo snarls.
"Watch your tongue, boy. There's an arena waiting for you. I'd hate for anything to happen to you before we arrived in Meridian." The Sun Priest replies coolly.
Kotallo's only response is to smirk.
As if any of these fledgling Carja stood a chance of taking him down.
Aloy looks on at the situation unfolding before her. She pities the Carja Sun-Priest, but finds more than anything, that she's glad she'll have Kotallo by her side in the arena, come what may.
