Baraks's goal: Lead his people.
The Tarkatan colony was quieter than usual, a rare calm settling over the settlement as the day’s work wound to a close. Baraka walked the campgrounds one last time before retreating to his tent.
It had been a long day of planning, overseeing the arrival of supplies, and settling disputes between people within the colony. Baraka was used to the burdens of leadership, but they weighed heavier on him than he let on. His people saw him as an unshakable pillar, but only he knew how much effort it took to maintain that image.
When he finally entered his tent, he allowed the mask to drop. Baraka sat heavily on the floor, his claws trembling as he rested them on his knees. The flare of his Tarkat had been building all day, but he had pushed it aside, as he always did, for the sake of his people. Now, in the solitude of his tent, the full weight of the disease surged through him.
Pain tore through his body, sharp and unrelenting. He clenched his teeth, his Tarkatan jaws extending involuntarily as his mutation raged within him. The razor-sharp bone blades in his forearms slid out, shredding the bindings he had wrapped around them to keep them hidden. His breathing became ragged, his chest heaving as the disease made its presence known.
Baraka clenched his fists, willing himself to endure. This was his curse, one he would bear for the sake of his people. The tent filled with the sound of his labored breathing and low growls, a symphony of suffering that no one else was allowed to hear. He closed his eyes, steeling himself as the pain began to ebb, leaving him drained but not broken.
Just as he began to compose himself, the tent flap was thrown open. A young Tarkatan stumbled in, his face alight with urgency. “Baraka,” the boy said, his voice breathless. “There’s… someone outside the colony."
When he reached the outside, he saw a figure standing just beyond the perimeter: You. “Who are you?” he demanded, his tone a mix of caution and authority. “And why have you come here?”