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The nesting-plains of Shakra's birth were verdant and warm.
Sun filtered down from the refracting layers of greenery above, blade after blade of grass and shrubbery enveloping her tribe within its warm folds. It raised them, nurtured them, and then, eventually, when those whose destinies overtook it— when those most powerful warriors who had not let battle take them, but rather stumbled beneath the oncoming threat of age— it saw them off, as well as the select few young who departed with their elders.
Shakra was one of those few. In journeying after her master, she'd left those nurturing plains to find lands anew. Lands like none she could've ever dreamed. Lands of great caverns, roaring flames, and monstrous, bug-made spires of gleaming gold.
She'd never seen snow before venturing from the place of her birth.
If she had, perhaps she wouldn't have ended up in such a sorry state.
Mount Fay was an impenetrable fortress of ice. She'd planned ahead, yes. Coals and flintgems to fashion braziers when necessary, and extra cloth to adorn herself if needed. But planning based on the hearsay of other bugs and planning based on ones own prior experience were two different beasts entirely.
If she was less prideful— less dogged in her searching for her master's trail— she would've turned back while her shell still allowed. She would've reassessed the supplies necessary for such a summiting and come back to properly conquer it. Properly track down the winding trail of brass beads that betrayed her master's tracks.
Unfortunately, she did not. And as her trek climbed higher and higher, her supplies dwindled lower and lower.
Eventually she found herself now in the present; barely alive, barely clinging to warmth, in an alcove with sheer rock on all sides.
She'd heard tales of snow before she left home. From those bugs foolish enough to travel within her tribe's territories and still live to tell the tale. Merchants, of a sort, describing a great peak whose spires of ice climbed high into the sky; higher than even the hardiest bugs could fly without falling, for the air itself had grown too thin to breathe. The unconquerable Mount Fay. The peak of peaks that only those who made it their home could truly last in. An ultimate destiny for one cursed with the sort of adventuring spirit that found one dead long before their years.
How fitting of her master to conquer such a place.
How fitting of Shakra to succumb to it.
Her claws twitched. The chill had long-since seeped deep within her carapace. It wouldn't be long until it took her. Her supply of flintgems was empty. Even if some remained, there were no more coals left to smolder. Only her, and a sparse cloth so soaked in snow it brought more cold than warmth.
Chasing her master was like chasing a dream. Chasing the one who was more of a mother than the one who'd birthed her— for the queen of a wasp's tribe was no true mother to any of her kin. Shakra knew age was seeking its claim on her master's shell. For why else would a warrior so undefeated leave so suddenly? To die of years in one's nesting-plains was shameful. To seek out a more noble death... that was what their tribe truly valued.
Would her death be shameful? Shakra couldn't help but wonder. To climb as far as she did was a sign of strength. But to fall to something as simple as insufficient preparation was a sign of the worst kind of weakness.
Her rings lay beside her. The comforting presence of them around her wrists would only serve to hasten her end. Dimly, Shakra hoped whatever poor bug that might find her would know she was a warrior. That they wouldn't see her as a fool who had lost a battle that couldn't be won. She couldn't fight snow. She couldn't fight ice. She couldn't brandish her rings against a force like this and come out the other side with superior skill and fighting prowess.
She could only sit.
She could only wait.
She could only slow down to a crawl as her limbs lost sensation, her claws no longer able to hold the sodden cloth against herself as it went fluttering away in a gust of wind.
Shakra's eyes felt heavy. There went her last layer of protection. It wouldn't be long now. It flowed away, far away, down down down, until she couldn't see it anymore, lost in a haze of freezing flakes.
Shakra blinked. The bestial part of her shell knew if she fell asleep she wouldn't wake. It noted, faintly, that the cloth had somehow returned. It floated down, this time, coming from someplace above her, rather than her own position in the alcove. It was red, this time, bright and unmistakable in her world of whites and greys. It was coming closer, this time, closer and closer still, a purer white above it, small sticks of black below it, closer to the alcove, closer to her.
Funny. Her cloth wasn't red. It wasn't white or black either. It was strange, how one's mind played tricks in the breaths of death. Strange, but inevitable. There was no point resisting any longer.
Shakra closed her eyes and accepted what was to come.
-
Warmth.
Warmth made the cartographer's eyes to open once more. A soft, fuzzy warmth, encompassing every part of her shell from her neck to her lower claws. Warmth, and a painful tingling as nerves deadened by ice awoke once more, brought back to life from the abyss of death.
Something was rubbing against her carapace. Rhythmic, yet frantic. Repetitive movements against the length of her thighs, the junction of where upper leg met lower. Her vision lacked focus; a vague, pale shape glowed softly in front of her mask, but it was far too blurry for Shakra to discern more details than that. Hallucinations, most likely. Her eyes closed again. She'd heard tales of bugs who'd grown close freezing suddenly believing themselves to be far away, warmth suffusing their weary shells.
Still...
This warmth persisted.
It grew, and grew, and grew. Something shifted atop her. The rubbing moved from her legs to her forearms. A muscle twitched. No, perhaps this wasn't a hallucination. But then how was she not dead? How was she alive? What— or rather, who— had stumbled across her on the very brink of succumbing, in a place so uncharted that none but her should've been there in the first place?
Questions burning like her nerves, Shakra opened her eyes once more.
Oh.
Of course it would be her.
Who else could have it been?
A cough. A cleared throat. Working moisture back after the frigid air of Mount Fay nearly dried her voice to the point of cracking.
"Poshanka, Hornet Wielding Needle, for that is the name I’ve heard spoken by those bugs you’ve aided. I see I have you to thank for my rescue."
The bug in question started. She blinked, the strange luminescence of her mask briefly flickering from Shakra's sudden utterance. The methodical rubbing of Shakra's limbs halted in Hornet-Needle's mildly stunned silence.
Sight mostly recovered, the cartographer finally noticed her surroundings. Hornet-Needle was straddling her waist, the bright red of her cloak encompassed the both of them like a pelt draped over a shelter. Something warm and fuzzy lined the inside of it now, as evidenced by both the pleasant tingling of heat on her body and a small shock of fluff peaking past Hornet-Needle's collar. The alcove was also darker than it should've been for some reason. A quick glance past her showed thick webbing sealing off the entrance. It was only by the soft glow of her savior's mask that Shakra could see at all.
Hornet-Needle finally recovered. "Shakra," she said, her habitual composure ever-so slightly cracked with an edge of concern. "Do you still ail? I did what I could, but if frostbite has claimed any of your extremities, I profusely apologize."
A small laugh forced its way past Shakra's throat. Currently saving her life, yet apologizing for if it wasn't perfect? What a strange bug she was. "My injuries should be more grievous than they are. Dondakku... the fact I still breathe is more than enough."
The rubbing resumed. Hornet-Needle's weight shifted slightly, sturdy paws lined with fine hairs curving around Shakra's wrist to encourage hemolymph back into the limb. "I still will claim responsibility if necessary. This mountain is not suited for bugs such as ourselves who lack thick coats or hides."
Shakra hummed in response. The silk enclosing the alcove muffled its echo, coming across close and flat to one's ear. "It is true I was not suited for this climb. An overconfident fool I was, thinking I could track my master with such little preparation." A claw clenched beneath the warmth of the cloak. She hadn't died a dishonorable death. That was true. But now, the shame of having come so close to it prickled her shell like stinging nettles. "I am in your debt now, Hornet Wielding Needle," she said, words as stiff and chilled as chipped ice. "Pah. I would have fallen to these sleet-slicked cliffs had you not found me."
"There is no debt to be had," Hornet-Needle said with brisk matter-of-factness. She started massaging her other arm. "I know you would come to my aid should I require it, and ask for nothing in return. Nor would you look down upon my skills while doing so. I extend the same to you, Shakra."
A heat burned beneath Shakra's mask. What Hornet-Needle said was true; the other had proven herself time and again, and Shakra never thought of her less any time she stumbled into the cartographer's camp clearly worse for wear. Still, to admit such a thing aloud— and casually at that— struck Shakra in a manner she hadn't anticipated. Perhaps it was her tribe's insistence on outward sustainability that made Hornet-Needle's words cut through years of suppressed complexes. An admittance like hers was only done in moments of intimacy. And around those one cared for and trusted above all else.
Shakra hadn't heard anything of the like since her master departed, only a trail of brass beads to track her by.
"... I shall instead thank your kindness," Shakra said at last. She turned away and closed her eyes, ignoring the strange, unaccustomed warmth in her shell in favor of the more rational one worked into her limbs. Their chill had all-but abated by now. It was hard to believe she'd been on death's door less than an hour before.
Hornet-Needle hummed in acknowledgment. She continued her impromptu first-aid, chasing the last of the mountain's bitter cold away with precise paws and a thick, down-lined cloak.
A natural silence fell. Eventually, all of Shakra's extremities regained their vitality. She could feel the stone beneath her paws, clench her claws without issue. Hornet-Needle nodded to herself. The fellow warrior was assured of Shakra's safety, yet she didn't move from her position, electing to stay straddling the taller bug's waist. Likely to preserve what heat they could beneath the new fluffy feathers lining that eye-catching cloak.
How her... savior came about such an addition eluded Shakra. Hornet-Needle certainly didn't posses it at the base of Mount Fay. She'd stumbled within the cartographer's camp— shivering and half-dead— on multiple occasions, warming herself by braziers laden with enough coal to chart maps by. She'd offered her camp as she always had. It was almost routine, by then, for that white mask and red cloak to take refuge in her shelters.
The fluttering joy of crossing paths with the other once more had warmed Shakra's heart at the time. Perhaps it was warmed to the point of foolishness.
It was strange. She couldn't help but wonder if she'd have made the same choices, had Hornet-Needle not shared her shade. Had her mind not been ever-so-slightly clouded by that strange, shell-warming joy that bubbled like molten iron whenever they crossed paths. Would Shakra have turned back? Would Shakra have realized the state of her dwindling supplies, and replenished before ascending the peak to a barely avoided doom?
... Was Shakra not also chasing Hornet-Needle's trail as well?
The thought was perplexing. If she were honest, it was downright perturbing. Finding her master was her upmost priority. To stray from that trail before meeting its end would not only go against her pride as a warrior, but also her duty to her master. She'd never thought herself one to indulge strange fancies. The nesting plains of her birth weren't a place of fanciful tolerance. Thus, those who indulged rarely stayed.
Well. It's not like she stayed, either.
Shakra's eyes remained closed beneath her mask, listening to the howling gale of the storm outside, the quiet breathing of Hornet-Needle. Winds and ice shrieked of death beyond. The silken barrier adequately protecting against snow, but muffled gusts still bit frozen teeth into the few patches of shell not covered by the other's cloak. Shakra grunted, then shifted further beneath its feathers. Hornet-Needle shifted in kind.
Her presence was grounding. Like a stout, yet sturdy mountain. Weathered, eternal, and slightly worn, but enduring all the same.
A child this bug was not.
"... Shakra?"
"Hm?" A cracked eye. Her savior's mask glowed faintly in the dark; a soft, pale crescent moon at night.
"I believe it would be most prudent to reside here for now." Hornet-Needle adjusted her garment slightly, allowing more of it to cover Shakra's form. "At least until either the gale slows, or your strength fully returns."
Shakra couldn't suppress a wince. Her words dealt a direct blow to her pride. Alas, it was not an untrue one. She'd avoided a dishonorable death once. It would be an insult of the greatest kind to render Hornet-Needle's resuscitation efforts moot. "You speak sense," she at last agreed. "I will rest for now. I trust you can keep watch?"
Hornet-Needle snorted. "If any foe can find a spot as isolated as this, then they would be quite formidable indeed. I shall awaken you if needed."
From any other, the comment would've brought shame. Yet from Hornet-Needle, she could feel the good-natured nudge beneath, and knew her lapse in judgment was only playfully poked at, not scrutinized.
Shakra said no more. She didn't trust her tongue to not flap foolishly. Not in such close proximity to the cause of said foolishness. She instead curled up to the best of her ability, Hornet-Needle's warm legs around her waist a pleasant, anchoring presence in a world of ice and cold.
The wind howled. Her savior breathed. Shakra's pulse thrummed, not quite excited, but not quite relaxed, either.
Ah, Master... she thought. The edge of sleep beckoned. In the twilight between waking and not, a quiet thought she'd known for days, yet refused to acknowledge, finally bore fruit.
Forgive me, but I have found a new trail to track, once I've claimed your journey's end at last.
Shakra fell asleep, and smiled.