Instead of waiting for Toho to take her down, Damita slid, landing hand; her hands going behind her back to smooth the dress down. ‘Thank the good lord for flat shoes,’ she thought idly, keeping her distance from Toho. Gaze flicked to where her nails had made bloody crescents on his arm, the young woman shaking her head briefly before looking to the chief, Toho’s father. She kept her gaze from straying, not wanting to have to meet the gazes of any of the villagers.<br/><br/>Damita stuck close to Otaohnacto, feeling strangely safe around the older man; he reminded her of her own father, silent and unmoving, like great mountains. Cinnamon gaze wandered around the tent as they entered, the woman having to take great care as she seated herself, hands settling in her lap. It was then and only then that she paid any notice to Toho, studying him briefly before becoming distracted with the smell of food. Her expression was confused as the old man offered her the chickens, a hand reaching out hesitantly to take one – Why were they being so friendly?<br/><br/>Well, at least, the chief was being friendly. Damita looked down at the chicken within her hands, stomach knotted with anxiety, that anxious face framed by locks of caramel. Fingers stripped away a piece of meat from the bird before passing the chicken off to Toho, refusing to look directly at him once more. Her questions were burning her tongue, the young woman able to hold them back any longer. “I do not understand, why am I here?”<br/><br/>