Integrating into life with the new clan felt seamless for a brother like Bastian, as was the call to follow his Clan Mother here to the Ember Claws. He swore fealty to Mother Anjali and if the gods had led her to this touch of paradise, well... who was he to deny the will of the gods and leader?

Nor the great shaman of his new clan. Matier and Anjali had commanded the blacksmith to forge the shaman's daughter new daggers in gratitude for their people joining as one. It was his mission for the day to slave over the anvil, slamming the hammer down as he shifted the tongs back and forth with a critical eye to make sure each connection against iron was perfect.

On the second day, identical twin blades cooled along the hilts and pommels. The third he polished the blades and decorated the hilt by chiseling down metal into curling claws and with the assistance of Nerolia's talents, binding thin straps of leather around the hilts. The pommel was tapped into place and lifted both daggers to inspect them, testing their weight and balance, and making sure that there were no imperfections. He never tolerated anything but perfection in his work because it could cost a brother or sister their life - as long as they were trained in their use. He couldn't correct ignorance.

He smirked, pleased, after testing the sharpness of the blade against his own thumb and watched crimson pool along the thin cut. He bandaged the cut with a thin strip of cloth because he didn't want to bleed all over the gifts, nor the black painted and polished wooden box in which the daggers would rest atop a bed of fur.

He splashed water across his face to wash away soot, and dunk his hands in again and ran wet fingers along his muscular arms to do the same. Bastian wanted to be somewhat respectable when delivering the gifts to the shaman's daughter and cleanliness went a long way. He let his long hair down to brush out before bringing the sides of his hair back into a braid and toned down his scruff so it wasn't so fuzzy an unkempt after the long laborious days by the forge.

To honor his work, he took white ash from the fire to accentuate the bone structure around his eyes and cheeks. This was often done for battle, but the labor from his hands were fueled by the fires, and that symbolization was taken straight from the source and worn proudly for the work in the box and the woman the gift was for. The waistcoat vest was one of the best pieces of clothing he had that paired with black pants and boots, grey in color with leather padding along the chest and waist.

Presentable, he left his hut and went to the newly constructed building of wood and stone - a place for the people to gather for celebrations, food and drink. He pushed the creaky wooden door open, making note that it needed oil, and with the gift tucked under his other arm, took his gaze across the large room for the one he sought.

Braziers hung in a row on either side of the room already lit as night would soon come. There were long rows of tables in the center but for the great leaders of the clan there were tables at the front. Three chairs stood the highest, carved from wood - one had the topmost rail and ears curved like lavender vines, another lined with the antlers and bones of verne, and the last adorned in feathers with sacred runes burned against the wood - all were lined with the best furs to sit in comfort.

His eyes drifted to a male walking across the room towards the doors that led into the kitchens and that was when he saw her. Steeling himself with a deep breath, he carried himself over to where she sat with long strides before stopping, and bowed deeply. He waited to be acknowledged as with all the different clan backgrounds there were here, it was hard to say who was tolerate of a male speaking up first with introductions.