"Let's just wait here for the others to return." She's glad that Magnificence seems to be calmer, now. She wonders how Araari did it and wishes she could do the same

Araari prays by herself while she spins thread.

Zoë should not go to Dallol village; she is incapacitated by the heat, she gets sick easily, and the villagers had warned that it would be bad for—whatever it was that caused her to bite a chunk out of her thumb.

Sister Araari, on the other hand, is used to the heat; she is not sickly; she has God on her side, and can do an exorcism if needs must.

She packs her things. She leaves Magnificence with Zoë. She promises to return. And she leaves for Dallol.

Physically speaking, Dallol village is much like Kolluli village. Both have a few permanent buildings made from salt blocks, supplemented by about two dozen tents in the native style.

Several dozen people of all ages and both genders assemble near the edge of the town, silently awaiting Araari. Many of the locals here are bandaged, especially on their hands and arms, and, where they are not bandaged, many are scarred. By the same token, many of the villagers are missing fingers, and a few are missing hands or feet. This is even true of the children.

Many marks are consistent with biting, but also other scars and wounds are more consistent with cutting, crushing, whipping, and other types of trauma.

Well.

“Hello,” Araari says. “Do any of you need care? I have some medical supplies.”

The villagers shake their heads, and pantomime that she should enter the village.

Araari enters. “Is it alright that I am talking, or should I be silent as well? I do not mean to be rude. Thank you all for your generous hospitality in welcoming this stranger.”

The villagers say something in Afar, which she does not speak.

Some villagers simply watch her go and then turn back to their daily business, but a fair number join what turns into a procession toward the salt-block building at the center of the village.

She notices several of the villagers hurting themselves — cutting themselves with small blades, bits of glass, or their own fingernails or teeth. Such actions draw reserved signs of approval from other villagers nearby.

She interrupts one by tapping their shoulder to get their attention.

They wave her away and continue what they were doing.

Hm.

She points at her first aid kit and then at a newly-inflicted wound and makes a questioning sound.

The person shakes their head.

Well. It is... certainly not good that children are being raised here. 

She heads towards the salt-block building with the procession.

A girl is jabbing at her arm sharply, and a glint of light reveals some edge of glass in her hand. Blood trickles down her arm and from between the fingers that grip the shard. An older relative, perhaps her mother, comes up behind her and takes the glass out of the girl’s hand.

.....Hopefully that’s a good thing, trying to prevent her from doing damage, and not because the mother can inflict it with more strength. 

The elder stabs the glass into her own leg. The girl rubs absently at the blood on her arm and then dabbles it onto the ground, making a sketch.

A man bites on his bottom lip so hard that blood streams down from his teeth. He absentmindedly wipes at the blood and smears it across his chin.

There's a child missing an arm, curled up with a mangy dog. He murmurs something in Orome under his breath over and over and over again: “Banished be the moon. Open wide my Rift. Stars gaze upon my might.”

Oh hey she knows that language! Araari abandons the procession to kneel by him. “Hello. Can I help you?"

He startles. "What?"

“I’m sorry to interrupt you. My name is Sister Araari. I am a nun from outside Dallol. I have medicine, and food, and water.”

He shakes his head and curls up more tightly with his dog. He looks deeply distressed.

“What’s wrong? I am—sorry if I have violated some taboo. Please forgive me.”

He whimpers and does not say anything more.

Araari rejoins the procession.

A boy, no more than fourteen, steps out from the crowd and steps up to her. He offers a small, rusty knife in his open hands. His eyes look generous as his lips peel back in a grin of blood-stained teeth.

Araari takes the knife and bows to show gratitude. It is mostly gratitude that now this boy won’t be stabbing himself with a rusty knife, but still.

At the building, two villagers precede her in, each drawing their hand across a block of salt in the doorframe in which many shards of glass have been embedded. This draws blood; many villagers have clearly done this in the past because dried bloodstains extend nearly to the ground on that side of the frame.