2. What were they told to start/stop the most as a child? (Y'asmina and/or Y'Raos)
Y’malha couldn’t be mad at his son. He had to fake it. But goddess burn him, it was difficult.
“Raos,” he spoke, that deep timbre like an echo in a cave. His young son clenched his small, scrapped up fists, his busted lip pursed as he awaited his punishment. “You can’t beat up every kid that picks on Y’aela. She won’t toughen up unless she withstands a bit of the bickering.”
Young Raos’ ears twitched, sniffing. Not because he was crying. No. His son had a bit of a bloody nose. How many of the boys had he gone after?
“They said she didn’t belong here,” Raos lisped. Oh boy. Missing a front tooth too. Bless his soul. “Kept calling her Dead Eyes ‘n stuff. I don’t -like- it!” Raos let out his own little roar and, upon seeing his father arch a brow, promptly straightened up and glued his stare to his sand covered feet. “…Blue eyes aren’t dead eyes.”
“You’re right, son. They aren’t. But black eyes aren’t good either.” He’d have to…correct some of the mentalities about the tribe. Y’aela and her mother might not carry the darker skin and hair colors that most of them did. But they were a just as much a part of the tribe as the rest of them. And as Nunh, he wouldn’t tolerate such petty prodding. Still, he had his son to deal with. Crouching down to Y’raos’ height, Y’malha used his shirt to clean his son’s face.
“No more beating up the other kids,” the Nunh warned, loud enough that the mothers and younger Tias nearby could hear him. He brushed his son’s mop of copper hair out of his face and rested his forehead against his child’s, lowering his voice to a rumbling whisper.
“…At least, don’t start anything you can’t finish, my boy.”