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Mwenye was only vaguely aware that they had finally found the tribe again until his camel came to a stop and bellowed a demand. He'd been away from the tribe longer than he'd expected - inasmuch as he ever had solid expectations when the ancestors informed him it was time to go out in the sands alone and meditate. He had run out of water nearly a week ago when he had - foolishly, it turned out - ignored his camel's suggestion of direction, and turned her back to where he had anticipated the tribe would be - and they had not been there. The voices that spoke only to him had given him advice, louder as they always were when he was alone and his awareness pulled away from the physical world either by thirst or drugs. He'd trusted the one that sounded most confident - and been wrong, again. Reduced to drinking camel's blood, andunsure of ether where he was or where he was going, he'd eventually just given his mount her head, and trusted her instincts and much better nose to find either water or her herd.
The young prophet heaved a sigh of relief, pulled the corner of his headscarf down from across his face, and rubbed his cheeks tiredly. Despite his protective clothing, he'd gotten a bit sunburned, or perhaps it was the effects of the dust storm the camel had decided was not bad enough to stop and shelter from when she was thirsty as well. He unfolded himself stiffly from his cross-legged position on her back, and was jostled as she decided not to wait for him to dismount after all before shoving her way past another camel to the water trough. Mwenye swung off her back with none of his usual grace, and landed solidly on his rump.
He was more than thirsty enough to wet his mouth with water tained by camel spit, but by the time he managed to shove himself to his feet, there was none left. "Oh thanks. I thought you liked me," he muttered, but he couldn't really blame her.
One of the tribe's youths had come to see what the camels were fussing about, and ran over when he caught sight of the new arrival. "Mwenye! You're back!" Her smile faded as she took a good look at him. "You look terrible. I'll fetch Tasani."
"No - no need to bother the leierein," Mwenye told her firmly. "I just need water and rest, I'll be fine." If Tasani saw him in this condition, she'd tell her husband, and he had no interest in facing his friend until he no longer looked like letting him wander off into the sands by himself was a terrible idea.
"And more water for your camel, too," the girl assessed. "I'm on it." She ran off to fetch the water, and grabbed the tribe's newest slave as she passed her. "You. Go tend to the prophet and set his tent up." She spun the other girl around and pointed firmly back where she'd come from, and then ran off again.
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Mwenye was only vaguely aware that they had finally found the tribe again until his camel came to a stop and bellowed a demand. He'd been away from the tribe longer than he'd expected - inasmuch as he ever had solid expectations when the ancestors informed him it was time to go out in the sands alone and meditate. He had run out of water nearly a week ago when he had - foolishly, it turned out - ignored his camel's suggestion of direction, and turned her back to where he had anticipated the tribe would be - and they had not been there. The voices that spoke only to him had given him advice, louder as they always were when he was alone and his awareness pulled away from the physical world either by thirst or drugs. He'd trusted the one that sounded most confident - and been wrong, again. Reduced to drinking camel's blood, andunsure of ether where he was or where he was going, he'd eventually just given his mount her head, and trusted her instincts and much better nose to find either water or her herd.
The young prophet heaved a sigh of relief, pulled the corner of his headscarf down from across his face, and rubbed his cheeks tiredly. Despite his protective clothing, he'd gotten a bit sunburned, or perhaps it was the effects of the dust storm the camel had decided was not bad enough to stop and shelter from when she was thirsty as well. He unfolded himself stiffly from his cross-legged position on her back, and was jostled as she decided not to wait for him to dismount after all before shoving her way past another camel to the water trough. Mwenye swung off her back with none of his usual grace, and landed solidly on his rump.
He was more than thirsty enough to wet his mouth with water tained by camel spit, but by the time he managed to shove himself to his feet, there was none left. "Oh thanks. I thought you liked me," he muttered, but he couldn't really blame her.
One of the tribe's youths had come to see what the camels were fussing about, and ran over when he caught sight of the new arrival. "Mwenye! You're back!" Her smile faded as she took a good look at him. "You look terrible. I'll fetch Tasani."
"No - no need to bother the leierein," Mwenye told her firmly. "I just need water and rest, I'll be fine." If Tasani saw him in this condition, she'd tell her husband, and he had no interest in facing his friend until he no longer looked like letting him wander off into the sands by himself was a terrible idea.
"And more water for your camel, too," the girl assessed. "I'm on it." She ran off to fetch the water, and grabbed the tribe's newest slave as she passed her. "You. Go tend to the prophet and set his tent up." She spun the other girl around and pointed firmly back where she'd come from, and then ran off again.
Mwenye was only vaguely aware that they had finally found the tribe again until his camel came to a stop and bellowed a demand. He'd been away from the tribe longer than he'd expected - inasmuch as he ever had solid expectations when the ancestors informed him it was time to go out in the sands alone and meditate. He had run out of water nearly a week ago when he had - foolishly, it turned out - ignored his camel's suggestion of direction, and turned her back to where he had anticipated the tribe would be - and they had not been there. The voices that spoke only to him had given him advice, louder as they always were when he was alone and his awareness pulled away from the physical world either by thirst or drugs. He'd trusted the one that sounded most confident - and been wrong, again. Reduced to drinking camel's blood, andunsure of ether where he was or where he was going, he'd eventually just given his mount her head, and trusted her instincts and much better nose to find either water or her herd.
The young prophet heaved a sigh of relief, pulled the corner of his headscarf down from across his face, and rubbed his cheeks tiredly. Despite his protective clothing, he'd gotten a bit sunburned, or perhaps it was the effects of the dust storm the camel had decided was not bad enough to stop and shelter from when she was thirsty as well. He unfolded himself stiffly from his cross-legged position on her back, and was jostled as she decided not to wait for him to dismount after all before shoving her way past another camel to the water trough. Mwenye swung off her back with none of his usual grace, and landed solidly on his rump.
He was more than thirsty enough to wet his mouth with water tained by camel spit, but by the time he managed to shove himself to his feet, there was none left. "Oh thanks. I thought you liked me," he muttered, but he couldn't really blame her.
One of the tribe's youths had come to see what the camels were fussing about, and ran over when he caught sight of the new arrival. "Mwenye! You're back!" Her smile faded as she took a good look at him. "You look terrible. I'll fetch Tasani."
"No - no need to bother the leierein," Mwenye told her firmly. "I just need water and rest, I'll be fine." If Tasani saw him in this condition, she'd tell her husband, and he had no interest in facing his friend until he no longer looked like letting him wander off into the sands by himself was a terrible idea.
"And more water for your camel, too," the girl assessed. "I'm on it." She ran off to fetch the water, and grabbed the tribe's newest slave as she passed her. "You. Go tend to the prophet and set his tent up." She spun the other girl around and pointed firmly back where she'd come from, and then ran off again.
Neena had no issues in obeying commands given to her within the Zaire tribe. She was a slave. And therefore, she was expected to be behoven to those she served. The only issue she had with it, was the fact that she was the tribe's slave rather than a particular person's. Which meant that, while she didn't have one particular set of eyes bearing down on her every hour of every day (which she liked), there was an annoying element to the role where her multiple 'masters' didn't actually speak to one another. Instead, she was quite often half way through a job for one person and then grabbed and ordered to complete another without checking to make sure that she wasn't already busy.
This, was one of those times.
Already in the process of collecting up some of the pottery that had been used for the midday meal, Neena was forced to set aside that duty when she was grabbed by a child no less and given a new order. Unable to do anything to correct the young girl that she was, in fact, already detained, she had no option but to push all of the utensils and bowls close together into a neat pile that people were less likely to trip over and then hurry off to see to this 'prophet' with the intention of returning to sort out the ceramics later.
Breathing out in a gruff exhale that set big, curling layers of her hair floating up by her forehead, Neena stomped with a confident and strong stride across the dunes to the outer edge of the settlement where she had been pointed to. She had met a few people who liked to call themselves prophets or oracles on her travels. And one sea-tainted scurvy sailor who liked to believe that (with enough rum) he could stick his head into the sea and hear the melody of the sirens. But she had yet to meet one since being purchased by the Zaire.
With a curiosity she couldn't restrain nor tried to resist, Neena headed on over to a young man - significantly[/u] younger in fact, than she was expecting - who looked positively beaten by the sand and wind into a state of a dried-out raisin. His lips were cracked with the heat and, despite his dark colouring like hers, he had even managed to burn. What on earth had the man been doing?
Pointing out an arm towards one of the water posts that had been set up around the tribe (a simple but strong stick of wood buried deep in the sand and sporting several water skins to be used in emergencies) Neena called out to the man.
"There's water that way." He wouldn't be able to see the post from where he stood but she knew it to be there. "I'm going to collect it for you, but if you want it all the sooner, follow me." If your legs hold out that long... She added silently in her head. The poor man looked drained (literally) dry. And it seemed stupid to make the man wait for her to journey both ways. He might as well follow her.
By the time they reached the post, the poor man looked ready to fall over so Neena was quick to make the efforts of unfastening the nearest water skin and holding it out to him.
"Here." She said, as she offered it out. "You look like you could do with bathing in the stuff." Given she had found the man by the camel trough and she hadn't seen him in the few weeks she'd been with the tribe so far, she could surmise where he had been. "How did you run out of water?" She asked, in a tone that suggested he was a complete idiot. Water was literally the most important consideration in the desert. How did anyone not notice when they were running low?!
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Neena had no issues in obeying commands given to her within the Zaire tribe. She was a slave. And therefore, she was expected to be behoven to those she served. The only issue she had with it, was the fact that she was the tribe's slave rather than a particular person's. Which meant that, while she didn't have one particular set of eyes bearing down on her every hour of every day (which she liked), there was an annoying element to the role where her multiple 'masters' didn't actually speak to one another. Instead, she was quite often half way through a job for one person and then grabbed and ordered to complete another without checking to make sure that she wasn't already busy.
This, was one of those times.
Already in the process of collecting up some of the pottery that had been used for the midday meal, Neena was forced to set aside that duty when she was grabbed by a child no less and given a new order. Unable to do anything to correct the young girl that she was, in fact, already detained, she had no option but to push all of the utensils and bowls close together into a neat pile that people were less likely to trip over and then hurry off to see to this 'prophet' with the intention of returning to sort out the ceramics later.
Breathing out in a gruff exhale that set big, curling layers of her hair floating up by her forehead, Neena stomped with a confident and strong stride across the dunes to the outer edge of the settlement where she had been pointed to. She had met a few people who liked to call themselves prophets or oracles on her travels. And one sea-tainted scurvy sailor who liked to believe that (with enough rum) he could stick his head into the sea and hear the melody of the sirens. But she had yet to meet one since being purchased by the Zaire.
With a curiosity she couldn't restrain nor tried to resist, Neena headed on over to a young man - significantly[/u] younger in fact, than she was expecting - who looked positively beaten by the sand and wind into a state of a dried-out raisin. His lips were cracked with the heat and, despite his dark colouring like hers, he had even managed to burn. What on earth had the man been doing?
Pointing out an arm towards one of the water posts that had been set up around the tribe (a simple but strong stick of wood buried deep in the sand and sporting several water skins to be used in emergencies) Neena called out to the man.
"There's water that way." He wouldn't be able to see the post from where he stood but she knew it to be there. "I'm going to collect it for you, but if you want it all the sooner, follow me." If your legs hold out that long... She added silently in her head. The poor man looked drained (literally) dry. And it seemed stupid to make the man wait for her to journey both ways. He might as well follow her.
By the time they reached the post, the poor man looked ready to fall over so Neena was quick to make the efforts of unfastening the nearest water skin and holding it out to him.
"Here." She said, as she offered it out. "You look like you could do with bathing in the stuff." Given she had found the man by the camel trough and she hadn't seen him in the few weeks she'd been with the tribe so far, she could surmise where he had been. "How did you run out of water?" She asked, in a tone that suggested he was a complete idiot. Water was literally the most important consideration in the desert. How did anyone not notice when they were running low?!
Neena had no issues in obeying commands given to her within the Zaire tribe. She was a slave. And therefore, she was expected to be behoven to those she served. The only issue she had with it, was the fact that she was the tribe's slave rather than a particular person's. Which meant that, while she didn't have one particular set of eyes bearing down on her every hour of every day (which she liked), there was an annoying element to the role where her multiple 'masters' didn't actually speak to one another. Instead, she was quite often half way through a job for one person and then grabbed and ordered to complete another without checking to make sure that she wasn't already busy.
This, was one of those times.
Already in the process of collecting up some of the pottery that had been used for the midday meal, Neena was forced to set aside that duty when she was grabbed by a child no less and given a new order. Unable to do anything to correct the young girl that she was, in fact, already detained, she had no option but to push all of the utensils and bowls close together into a neat pile that people were less likely to trip over and then hurry off to see to this 'prophet' with the intention of returning to sort out the ceramics later.
Breathing out in a gruff exhale that set big, curling layers of her hair floating up by her forehead, Neena stomped with a confident and strong stride across the dunes to the outer edge of the settlement where she had been pointed to. She had met a few people who liked to call themselves prophets or oracles on her travels. And one sea-tainted scurvy sailor who liked to believe that (with enough rum) he could stick his head into the sea and hear the melody of the sirens. But she had yet to meet one since being purchased by the Zaire.
With a curiosity she couldn't restrain nor tried to resist, Neena headed on over to a young man - significantly[/u] younger in fact, than she was expecting - who looked positively beaten by the sand and wind into a state of a dried-out raisin. His lips were cracked with the heat and, despite his dark colouring like hers, he had even managed to burn. What on earth had the man been doing?
Pointing out an arm towards one of the water posts that had been set up around the tribe (a simple but strong stick of wood buried deep in the sand and sporting several water skins to be used in emergencies) Neena called out to the man.
"There's water that way." He wouldn't be able to see the post from where he stood but she knew it to be there. "I'm going to collect it for you, but if you want it all the sooner, follow me." If your legs hold out that long... She added silently in her head. The poor man looked drained (literally) dry. And it seemed stupid to make the man wait for her to journey both ways. He might as well follow her.
By the time they reached the post, the poor man looked ready to fall over so Neena was quick to make the efforts of unfastening the nearest water skin and holding it out to him.
"Here." She said, as she offered it out. "You look like you could do with bathing in the stuff." Given she had found the man by the camel trough and she hadn't seen him in the few weeks she'd been with the tribe so far, she could surmise where he had been. "How did you run out of water?" She asked, in a tone that suggested he was a complete idiot. Water was literally the most important consideration in the desert. How did anyone not notice when they were running low?!
Water - well that was motivation enough. He squinted after the girl as he judged whether he was going to fall down again, decided likely not, and followed more slowly. When she handed him the waterskin, he dropped down to sit cross-legged in a single motion that would have looked graceful if not for the slightly too hard thump at the end. He drained more than half of it in a single swallow, waited for the expected dizzy spell to pass, and took another more normal sip. The water felt heavy in his stomach, but he immediately felt better nonetheless.
He shrugged at her question. "I was delayed, and missed meeting the tribe where I expected to, and then there was no water where Tionge said there would be." He made an effort to stand up, and then decided it would be better to wait a minute. "There is salt in the red pouch in my front-left saddlebag," he commented. Along with some medicinal herbs - he always kept them in the same place. Eventually, he stood up, and followed her back to his camel.
"I'm Mwenye," he told her finally. Having dealt with the immediate matter of his thirst, his mind was loosing that fuzzy feeling. His camel gave him a demanding where's my water, dumbass look, and he just rested his forehead against her warm fur and sighed. "Thank you," he added to the new girl. He sipped from the waterskin again, and sighed tiredly. He needed to find food, and set up his tent, and... it all seemed like terribly hard work right now. "I should definitely find something to eat," he murmured, mostly to himself. If nothing else, he could probably go invade one of his brothers' tents to take a nap, and then set up his own.
Just ask for help, dumbass.
He chuckled, recognizing that as his own mind and not any of the ancestors. Still good advice, though.
"I could use some help with my packs and tent," he admitted. "If you don't mind."
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Water - well that was motivation enough. He squinted after the girl as he judged whether he was going to fall down again, decided likely not, and followed more slowly. When she handed him the waterskin, he dropped down to sit cross-legged in a single motion that would have looked graceful if not for the slightly too hard thump at the end. He drained more than half of it in a single swallow, waited for the expected dizzy spell to pass, and took another more normal sip. The water felt heavy in his stomach, but he immediately felt better nonetheless.
He shrugged at her question. "I was delayed, and missed meeting the tribe where I expected to, and then there was no water where Tionge said there would be." He made an effort to stand up, and then decided it would be better to wait a minute. "There is salt in the red pouch in my front-left saddlebag," he commented. Along with some medicinal herbs - he always kept them in the same place. Eventually, he stood up, and followed her back to his camel.
"I'm Mwenye," he told her finally. Having dealt with the immediate matter of his thirst, his mind was loosing that fuzzy feeling. His camel gave him a demanding where's my water, dumbass look, and he just rested his forehead against her warm fur and sighed. "Thank you," he added to the new girl. He sipped from the waterskin again, and sighed tiredly. He needed to find food, and set up his tent, and... it all seemed like terribly hard work right now. "I should definitely find something to eat," he murmured, mostly to himself. If nothing else, he could probably go invade one of his brothers' tents to take a nap, and then set up his own.
Just ask for help, dumbass.
He chuckled, recognizing that as his own mind and not any of the ancestors. Still good advice, though.
"I could use some help with my packs and tent," he admitted. "If you don't mind."
Water - well that was motivation enough. He squinted after the girl as he judged whether he was going to fall down again, decided likely not, and followed more slowly. When she handed him the waterskin, he dropped down to sit cross-legged in a single motion that would have looked graceful if not for the slightly too hard thump at the end. He drained more than half of it in a single swallow, waited for the expected dizzy spell to pass, and took another more normal sip. The water felt heavy in his stomach, but he immediately felt better nonetheless.
He shrugged at her question. "I was delayed, and missed meeting the tribe where I expected to, and then there was no water where Tionge said there would be." He made an effort to stand up, and then decided it would be better to wait a minute. "There is salt in the red pouch in my front-left saddlebag," he commented. Along with some medicinal herbs - he always kept them in the same place. Eventually, he stood up, and followed her back to his camel.
"I'm Mwenye," he told her finally. Having dealt with the immediate matter of his thirst, his mind was loosing that fuzzy feeling. His camel gave him a demanding where's my water, dumbass look, and he just rested his forehead against her warm fur and sighed. "Thank you," he added to the new girl. He sipped from the waterskin again, and sighed tiredly. He needed to find food, and set up his tent, and... it all seemed like terribly hard work right now. "I should definitely find something to eat," he murmured, mostly to himself. If nothing else, he could probably go invade one of his brothers' tents to take a nap, and then set up his own.
Just ask for help, dumbass.
He chuckled, recognizing that as his own mind and not any of the ancestors. Still good advice, though.
"I could use some help with my packs and tent," he admitted. "If you don't mind."
As the man took the skin and drank from it thirstily, Neena let him. A man that dehydrated was not one to argue with when he sucked back that which he so desperately needed. Instead, she just stood casually, her weight braced more on one long tan leg than the other and waited for him to have his fill and be ready to stand back up and head back towards his camel.
"Silly." She commented, the word a simple label she placed upon him in a lightly chastising manner. Like a mother shaking her head at a young babe for falling over. It wasn't her place to say anything more - it wasn't her place to say even that - but Neena wasn't good at holding her tongue entirely. Instead, she simply muttered the word with a light tut at the man and then followed him when he was ready to get back to his feet.
Not now allowed to leave his side until he was done with her thanks to a simple instruction and her position as a slave, Neena trailed after him without either eagerness or complaint.
Her lips pursed as she considered the back of the man's head, Neena's own was on the tilt in a curious manner by the time they made it back to his camel and he seemed unable to stand without holding onto the thing.
So... this was a prophet...
He didn't really look any different to anyone else.
Though, having thought that, Neena then wasn't certain how she had expected him to look any different from others. Apparently, he was supposed to be in connection with the ancestors but no-one had said how so perhaps it wasn't something able to be visually seen - like a mark, or a sign... or a third eyeball.
When the man introduced himself, she gave back her name in return. "Neena". Nothing more or less - just the name, as she watched his face curiously, looking for something more impressive in him than the standard alignment of features.
When he asked for her help, Neena simply shrugged, her hands out and palms up like she had no other choice or option - nor nothing else to do.
"Sure." She told him and waved a hand towards an appropriate, nearby, empty space that he could utilise for his hawe if he wanted. It was on the edge of the tribe, rather than in the centre but some people preferred that. Clearly the man didn't mind being alone if he was content to go out into the desert for days on end to the point of starving thirst. "We can set up your hawe over there if you like?"
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As the man took the skin and drank from it thirstily, Neena let him. A man that dehydrated was not one to argue with when he sucked back that which he so desperately needed. Instead, she just stood casually, her weight braced more on one long tan leg than the other and waited for him to have his fill and be ready to stand back up and head back towards his camel.
"Silly." She commented, the word a simple label she placed upon him in a lightly chastising manner. Like a mother shaking her head at a young babe for falling over. It wasn't her place to say anything more - it wasn't her place to say even that - but Neena wasn't good at holding her tongue entirely. Instead, she simply muttered the word with a light tut at the man and then followed him when he was ready to get back to his feet.
Not now allowed to leave his side until he was done with her thanks to a simple instruction and her position as a slave, Neena trailed after him without either eagerness or complaint.
Her lips pursed as she considered the back of the man's head, Neena's own was on the tilt in a curious manner by the time they made it back to his camel and he seemed unable to stand without holding onto the thing.
So... this was a prophet...
He didn't really look any different to anyone else.
Though, having thought that, Neena then wasn't certain how she had expected him to look any different from others. Apparently, he was supposed to be in connection with the ancestors but no-one had said how so perhaps it wasn't something able to be visually seen - like a mark, or a sign... or a third eyeball.
When the man introduced himself, she gave back her name in return. "Neena". Nothing more or less - just the name, as she watched his face curiously, looking for something more impressive in him than the standard alignment of features.
When he asked for her help, Neena simply shrugged, her hands out and palms up like she had no other choice or option - nor nothing else to do.
"Sure." She told him and waved a hand towards an appropriate, nearby, empty space that he could utilise for his hawe if he wanted. It was on the edge of the tribe, rather than in the centre but some people preferred that. Clearly the man didn't mind being alone if he was content to go out into the desert for days on end to the point of starving thirst. "We can set up your hawe over there if you like?"
As the man took the skin and drank from it thirstily, Neena let him. A man that dehydrated was not one to argue with when he sucked back that which he so desperately needed. Instead, she just stood casually, her weight braced more on one long tan leg than the other and waited for him to have his fill and be ready to stand back up and head back towards his camel.
"Silly." She commented, the word a simple label she placed upon him in a lightly chastising manner. Like a mother shaking her head at a young babe for falling over. It wasn't her place to say anything more - it wasn't her place to say even that - but Neena wasn't good at holding her tongue entirely. Instead, she simply muttered the word with a light tut at the man and then followed him when he was ready to get back to his feet.
Not now allowed to leave his side until he was done with her thanks to a simple instruction and her position as a slave, Neena trailed after him without either eagerness or complaint.
Her lips pursed as she considered the back of the man's head, Neena's own was on the tilt in a curious manner by the time they made it back to his camel and he seemed unable to stand without holding onto the thing.
So... this was a prophet...
He didn't really look any different to anyone else.
Though, having thought that, Neena then wasn't certain how she had expected him to look any different from others. Apparently, he was supposed to be in connection with the ancestors but no-one had said how so perhaps it wasn't something able to be visually seen - like a mark, or a sign... or a third eyeball.
When the man introduced himself, she gave back her name in return. "Neena". Nothing more or less - just the name, as she watched his face curiously, looking for something more impressive in him than the standard alignment of features.
When he asked for her help, Neena simply shrugged, her hands out and palms up like she had no other choice or option - nor nothing else to do.
"Sure." She told him and waved a hand towards an appropriate, nearby, empty space that he could utilise for his hawe if he wanted. It was on the edge of the tribe, rather than in the centre but some people preferred that. Clearly the man didn't mind being alone if he was content to go out into the desert for days on end to the point of starving thirst. "We can set up your hawe over there if you like?"
"Sure." In truth, the Prophet didn't care - though not setting up in his usual spot closer to the center of the tribe - and thus the people most likely to scold him - didn't exactly lack appeal.
He really wasn't capable of helping, other than letting her know some of the peculiarities of his own way of organizing his packing. He seemed unfocused, or perhaps distracted, muttering to himself on and off in a way that seemed more conversational than most people's habits of either purposelessly swearing, scolding themselves, or reminding themselves of things.
"Hmm. Yes, Hasani should know that too... but there's no rush. I'll talk to him tonight. Let me get some food into myself first.. hmph. Fine."
He fell silent, then, as he rummaged in his bag for some salt, and then sat down with another drink of water.
"Thank you, Neena," he said again. "You seem to have saved me from having to admit to my mother that I'm an idiot. Again."
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"Sure." In truth, the Prophet didn't care - though not setting up in his usual spot closer to the center of the tribe - and thus the people most likely to scold him - didn't exactly lack appeal.
He really wasn't capable of helping, other than letting her know some of the peculiarities of his own way of organizing his packing. He seemed unfocused, or perhaps distracted, muttering to himself on and off in a way that seemed more conversational than most people's habits of either purposelessly swearing, scolding themselves, or reminding themselves of things.
"Hmm. Yes, Hasani should know that too... but there's no rush. I'll talk to him tonight. Let me get some food into myself first.. hmph. Fine."
He fell silent, then, as he rummaged in his bag for some salt, and then sat down with another drink of water.
"Thank you, Neena," he said again. "You seem to have saved me from having to admit to my mother that I'm an idiot. Again."
"Sure." In truth, the Prophet didn't care - though not setting up in his usual spot closer to the center of the tribe - and thus the people most likely to scold him - didn't exactly lack appeal.
He really wasn't capable of helping, other than letting her know some of the peculiarities of his own way of organizing his packing. He seemed unfocused, or perhaps distracted, muttering to himself on and off in a way that seemed more conversational than most people's habits of either purposelessly swearing, scolding themselves, or reminding themselves of things.
"Hmm. Yes, Hasani should know that too... but there's no rush. I'll talk to him tonight. Let me get some food into myself first.. hmph. Fine."
He fell silent, then, as he rummaged in his bag for some salt, and then sat down with another drink of water.
"Thank you, Neena," he said again. "You seem to have saved me from having to admit to my mother that I'm an idiot. Again."
It became fairly obvious fairly quickly that 'helping' the prophet to set up his hawe meant setting up the prophet's hawe for him. With a momentarily mental balk, Neena gave no outward signs of discontent over this idea as she had to admit that the guy looked pretty done for. It would take time for his energy to come back to him, for the water to heal his days in the desert and bring him back to some semblance of life and strength. Despite the fact that he appeared fairly tall and stout of muscle, none of it would be much use if he was dehydrated to the point where he couldn't stand on his own two feet.
Ergo, the building of his hawe was left in the hands of Neena The Slave and she was forced to go about business on her own. Luckily, she had been assigned to help plenty of others with their tents and, whilst she was normally given a secondary individual with two more hands to help handle the larger structure and open sheeting that covered it from top to bottom, she managed well enough. This particular tent, thank goodness, was not to the same size and majesty as those that housed large families or even the First Family of the Zaire. It was far more suited to a single individual and was easy enough to build the skeleton for and then start to quilt the thing in the kaftans rolled up and carried aboard Mwenye's camel.
Noting the fine work and careful stitching of the kaftans employed upon his home, Neena wondered at his role as a prophet and how the tribe must have given him such finery for his services as their byway to the ancestors. She mused upon that, shooting him sideways glances as she made herself a little sand step to reach higher and secure the fabric in place.
Sitting in the sand a few feet from where Neena worked, Mwenye drank from the water skin and offered instruction and command here and there when she was about to tie something in contradiction the way he normally set up his home. She followed the orders without complaint until, after the half dozenth little comment she bit back with more amusement than real annoyance -
"You're very bossy for a prophet!"
Only the comment was entirely lost as she glanced over to see the young man entirely focused on a conversation that had nothing to do with her. Instead, he appeared to be having only one end of said discussion, his eyes a little glazed and his attentions on the sands several yards away. She frowned a little, turned back to her work, and simply watched him from the corner of her eye until she had finished securing the rooftop of the hawe.
Jumping down from her little mound of sand and kicking it flat, Neena then set about the walls and internal rugs and before long had managed to construct the whole thing by herself (with the little inputs from the man currently her boss). But at least he was a polite one. For, as she crawled out from inside the finished hawe and dusted off her hands, he was grateful enough to offer her a thanks that he did not need to (for new people thanked slaves).
His words regarding his mother made Neena laugh and smile, shaking her head. The tight curls of her dark hair flapped a little at the motion.
"Yes, Mothers are surely the most scary of beasts." She offered him with a crinkling of skin out the outer edges of her eyes where she smiled. "Especially when you have messed up in some way."
Standing with her weight on one leg, her hip popped out to one side and her arms folded across her chest, Neena looked down at Mwenye, her shadow shielding him from the worst of the sun's rays.
"Who were you talking to just then?" She asked. "While I was working on the hawe?" She grabbed an outstretched thumb over her shoulder at the shelter before returning it to the folded posture across her chest. The words were neither accusatory nor suspicious - only light with curiosity and inquisitiveness.
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It became fairly obvious fairly quickly that 'helping' the prophet to set up his hawe meant setting up the prophet's hawe for him. With a momentarily mental balk, Neena gave no outward signs of discontent over this idea as she had to admit that the guy looked pretty done for. It would take time for his energy to come back to him, for the water to heal his days in the desert and bring him back to some semblance of life and strength. Despite the fact that he appeared fairly tall and stout of muscle, none of it would be much use if he was dehydrated to the point where he couldn't stand on his own two feet.
Ergo, the building of his hawe was left in the hands of Neena The Slave and she was forced to go about business on her own. Luckily, she had been assigned to help plenty of others with their tents and, whilst she was normally given a secondary individual with two more hands to help handle the larger structure and open sheeting that covered it from top to bottom, she managed well enough. This particular tent, thank goodness, was not to the same size and majesty as those that housed large families or even the First Family of the Zaire. It was far more suited to a single individual and was easy enough to build the skeleton for and then start to quilt the thing in the kaftans rolled up and carried aboard Mwenye's camel.
Noting the fine work and careful stitching of the kaftans employed upon his home, Neena wondered at his role as a prophet and how the tribe must have given him such finery for his services as their byway to the ancestors. She mused upon that, shooting him sideways glances as she made herself a little sand step to reach higher and secure the fabric in place.
Sitting in the sand a few feet from where Neena worked, Mwenye drank from the water skin and offered instruction and command here and there when she was about to tie something in contradiction the way he normally set up his home. She followed the orders without complaint until, after the half dozenth little comment she bit back with more amusement than real annoyance -
"You're very bossy for a prophet!"
Only the comment was entirely lost as she glanced over to see the young man entirely focused on a conversation that had nothing to do with her. Instead, he appeared to be having only one end of said discussion, his eyes a little glazed and his attentions on the sands several yards away. She frowned a little, turned back to her work, and simply watched him from the corner of her eye until she had finished securing the rooftop of the hawe.
Jumping down from her little mound of sand and kicking it flat, Neena then set about the walls and internal rugs and before long had managed to construct the whole thing by herself (with the little inputs from the man currently her boss). But at least he was a polite one. For, as she crawled out from inside the finished hawe and dusted off her hands, he was grateful enough to offer her a thanks that he did not need to (for new people thanked slaves).
His words regarding his mother made Neena laugh and smile, shaking her head. The tight curls of her dark hair flapped a little at the motion.
"Yes, Mothers are surely the most scary of beasts." She offered him with a crinkling of skin out the outer edges of her eyes where she smiled. "Especially when you have messed up in some way."
Standing with her weight on one leg, her hip popped out to one side and her arms folded across her chest, Neena looked down at Mwenye, her shadow shielding him from the worst of the sun's rays.
"Who were you talking to just then?" She asked. "While I was working on the hawe?" She grabbed an outstretched thumb over her shoulder at the shelter before returning it to the folded posture across her chest. The words were neither accusatory nor suspicious - only light with curiosity and inquisitiveness.
It became fairly obvious fairly quickly that 'helping' the prophet to set up his hawe meant setting up the prophet's hawe for him. With a momentarily mental balk, Neena gave no outward signs of discontent over this idea as she had to admit that the guy looked pretty done for. It would take time for his energy to come back to him, for the water to heal his days in the desert and bring him back to some semblance of life and strength. Despite the fact that he appeared fairly tall and stout of muscle, none of it would be much use if he was dehydrated to the point where he couldn't stand on his own two feet.
Ergo, the building of his hawe was left in the hands of Neena The Slave and she was forced to go about business on her own. Luckily, she had been assigned to help plenty of others with their tents and, whilst she was normally given a secondary individual with two more hands to help handle the larger structure and open sheeting that covered it from top to bottom, she managed well enough. This particular tent, thank goodness, was not to the same size and majesty as those that housed large families or even the First Family of the Zaire. It was far more suited to a single individual and was easy enough to build the skeleton for and then start to quilt the thing in the kaftans rolled up and carried aboard Mwenye's camel.
Noting the fine work and careful stitching of the kaftans employed upon his home, Neena wondered at his role as a prophet and how the tribe must have given him such finery for his services as their byway to the ancestors. She mused upon that, shooting him sideways glances as she made herself a little sand step to reach higher and secure the fabric in place.
Sitting in the sand a few feet from where Neena worked, Mwenye drank from the water skin and offered instruction and command here and there when she was about to tie something in contradiction the way he normally set up his home. She followed the orders without complaint until, after the half dozenth little comment she bit back with more amusement than real annoyance -
"You're very bossy for a prophet!"
Only the comment was entirely lost as she glanced over to see the young man entirely focused on a conversation that had nothing to do with her. Instead, he appeared to be having only one end of said discussion, his eyes a little glazed and his attentions on the sands several yards away. She frowned a little, turned back to her work, and simply watched him from the corner of her eye until she had finished securing the rooftop of the hawe.
Jumping down from her little mound of sand and kicking it flat, Neena then set about the walls and internal rugs and before long had managed to construct the whole thing by herself (with the little inputs from the man currently her boss). But at least he was a polite one. For, as she crawled out from inside the finished hawe and dusted off her hands, he was grateful enough to offer her a thanks that he did not need to (for new people thanked slaves).
His words regarding his mother made Neena laugh and smile, shaking her head. The tight curls of her dark hair flapped a little at the motion.
"Yes, Mothers are surely the most scary of beasts." She offered him with a crinkling of skin out the outer edges of her eyes where she smiled. "Especially when you have messed up in some way."
Standing with her weight on one leg, her hip popped out to one side and her arms folded across her chest, Neena looked down at Mwenye, her shadow shielding him from the worst of the sun's rays.
"Who were you talking to just then?" She asked. "While I was working on the hawe?" She grabbed an outstretched thumb over her shoulder at the shelter before returning it to the folded posture across her chest. The words were neither accusatory nor suspicious - only light with curiosity and inquisitiveness.
"My great-grandmother," Mwenye answered, as if that was not at all something unusual. "She likes scolding. But she has good advice."
His lips twitched in amusement as the benefits of the water started to take effect. "Why would you think a prophet wouldn't be bossy?" He tried not to be, usually. Particular, he'd admit to, and he'd rather do everything himself... maybe that was making him overly snippy. With the hawe set up, he moved into the shade and sighed gratefully. The air inside hadn't yet cooled, but even just being out of the sun was an immediate relief. He rummaged in a bag for a handful of nuts, and popped one into his mouth. At least he hadn't quite run out of food, too... oh, yes he had, that was the very last of it, and the only reason it was left was that dehydration had made him far less hungry. Huh. Oh well, that could easily be rectified now, and he didn't want to eat too quickly on top of having drunk so much at once. He'd likely pass out until tomorrow.
He watched the girl curiously for a moment. "When did you join the Zaire?"
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"My great-grandmother," Mwenye answered, as if that was not at all something unusual. "She likes scolding. But she has good advice."
His lips twitched in amusement as the benefits of the water started to take effect. "Why would you think a prophet wouldn't be bossy?" He tried not to be, usually. Particular, he'd admit to, and he'd rather do everything himself... maybe that was making him overly snippy. With the hawe set up, he moved into the shade and sighed gratefully. The air inside hadn't yet cooled, but even just being out of the sun was an immediate relief. He rummaged in a bag for a handful of nuts, and popped one into his mouth. At least he hadn't quite run out of food, too... oh, yes he had, that was the very last of it, and the only reason it was left was that dehydration had made him far less hungry. Huh. Oh well, that could easily be rectified now, and he didn't want to eat too quickly on top of having drunk so much at once. He'd likely pass out until tomorrow.
He watched the girl curiously for a moment. "When did you join the Zaire?"
"My great-grandmother," Mwenye answered, as if that was not at all something unusual. "She likes scolding. But she has good advice."
His lips twitched in amusement as the benefits of the water started to take effect. "Why would you think a prophet wouldn't be bossy?" He tried not to be, usually. Particular, he'd admit to, and he'd rather do everything himself... maybe that was making him overly snippy. With the hawe set up, he moved into the shade and sighed gratefully. The air inside hadn't yet cooled, but even just being out of the sun was an immediate relief. He rummaged in a bag for a handful of nuts, and popped one into his mouth. At least he hadn't quite run out of food, too... oh, yes he had, that was the very last of it, and the only reason it was left was that dehydration had made him far less hungry. Huh. Oh well, that could easily be rectified now, and he didn't want to eat too quickly on top of having drunk so much at once. He'd likely pass out until tomorrow.
He watched the girl curiously for a moment. "When did you join the Zaire?"
'My great-grandmother,'
The words prompted Neena to look about herself, across the sands and over her shoulder, wondering if there was an old woman hidden away somewhere behind one of the nearby hawes or Mwenye's camel. She had been working on the tent and half blind with kaftan in her face for half of the process, so it was entirely possible that she had missed the shape of a human being somewhere in their near vicinity. But now, she was open and able to see any and all trespassers upon their conversation and she saw none of them. As such, she was happy to assume that she had been listening to the old woman in his head. His great-grandmother had already passed and, as the prophet that he was to the Zaire people - the conduit to the ancestors - he had been speaking with her on a spiritual level rather than on a physical one.
She laughed in a soft little bark at the idea that the old crone had good advice but liked to offer it in the form of scolding. That sounded so similar to some of the other old ladies she had met in the Zaire tribe since she had become one of them.
"That sounds about right!" She assured him with a smile. "But - if you were talking to her in your head, why do you have to say the words out loud?" She asked. Again, her tone was neither accusatory nor suspicious or disingenuous. It was a sincere question of curiosity. For, surely the man could just think his intentions and not have them come out of his lips. Not that it seemed to matter too much if they did, given that everyone knew who he was and the abilities that he had when communicating with the dead.
As she asked this question, the man moved to scurry down beneath the shaded cool of the hawe that she had just built. Whilst it was true that the air within would not cool for another few hours, just being out of direct sunlight was a blessing all its own. Muggy heat was a refrain of some sort at least from burning light.
The question of when she had joined the gesin was a surprise.
When Mwenye had crawled down into the shade, she had more than expected him to fall upon his back, perhaps strip down to cool, and rest in his reflated self, glugging with all the water her had consumed in order to reinvigorate his life and mind. It was perhaps the option that she would have taken. And would have permitted her to head off and go about her day. Not that that was such an encouraging thought when she could either stay here and hold pleasant conversation or take on the next slave-applicable task that someone else didn't want to do. Yet, it was still a surprise to have someone as important as a prophet ask a question about herself.
She gave a shrug in response.
"A few weeks, not much more." She didn't bother making it clear that she was a slave - that was more than obvious by the fact that she had catered to his every win since he had come back into the gesin. "Came from the Somalu. I was excited to meet you. Lots of people say they are oracles or soothsayers but, in my experience, very few of them are real..."
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'My great-grandmother,'
The words prompted Neena to look about herself, across the sands and over her shoulder, wondering if there was an old woman hidden away somewhere behind one of the nearby hawes or Mwenye's camel. She had been working on the tent and half blind with kaftan in her face for half of the process, so it was entirely possible that she had missed the shape of a human being somewhere in their near vicinity. But now, she was open and able to see any and all trespassers upon their conversation and she saw none of them. As such, she was happy to assume that she had been listening to the old woman in his head. His great-grandmother had already passed and, as the prophet that he was to the Zaire people - the conduit to the ancestors - he had been speaking with her on a spiritual level rather than on a physical one.
She laughed in a soft little bark at the idea that the old crone had good advice but liked to offer it in the form of scolding. That sounded so similar to some of the other old ladies she had met in the Zaire tribe since she had become one of them.
"That sounds about right!" She assured him with a smile. "But - if you were talking to her in your head, why do you have to say the words out loud?" She asked. Again, her tone was neither accusatory nor suspicious or disingenuous. It was a sincere question of curiosity. For, surely the man could just think his intentions and not have them come out of his lips. Not that it seemed to matter too much if they did, given that everyone knew who he was and the abilities that he had when communicating with the dead.
As she asked this question, the man moved to scurry down beneath the shaded cool of the hawe that she had just built. Whilst it was true that the air within would not cool for another few hours, just being out of direct sunlight was a blessing all its own. Muggy heat was a refrain of some sort at least from burning light.
The question of when she had joined the gesin was a surprise.
When Mwenye had crawled down into the shade, she had more than expected him to fall upon his back, perhaps strip down to cool, and rest in his reflated self, glugging with all the water her had consumed in order to reinvigorate his life and mind. It was perhaps the option that she would have taken. And would have permitted her to head off and go about her day. Not that that was such an encouraging thought when she could either stay here and hold pleasant conversation or take on the next slave-applicable task that someone else didn't want to do. Yet, it was still a surprise to have someone as important as a prophet ask a question about herself.
She gave a shrug in response.
"A few weeks, not much more." She didn't bother making it clear that she was a slave - that was more than obvious by the fact that she had catered to his every win since he had come back into the gesin. "Came from the Somalu. I was excited to meet you. Lots of people say they are oracles or soothsayers but, in my experience, very few of them are real..."
'My great-grandmother,'
The words prompted Neena to look about herself, across the sands and over her shoulder, wondering if there was an old woman hidden away somewhere behind one of the nearby hawes or Mwenye's camel. She had been working on the tent and half blind with kaftan in her face for half of the process, so it was entirely possible that she had missed the shape of a human being somewhere in their near vicinity. But now, she was open and able to see any and all trespassers upon their conversation and she saw none of them. As such, she was happy to assume that she had been listening to the old woman in his head. His great-grandmother had already passed and, as the prophet that he was to the Zaire people - the conduit to the ancestors - he had been speaking with her on a spiritual level rather than on a physical one.
She laughed in a soft little bark at the idea that the old crone had good advice but liked to offer it in the form of scolding. That sounded so similar to some of the other old ladies she had met in the Zaire tribe since she had become one of them.
"That sounds about right!" She assured him with a smile. "But - if you were talking to her in your head, why do you have to say the words out loud?" She asked. Again, her tone was neither accusatory nor suspicious or disingenuous. It was a sincere question of curiosity. For, surely the man could just think his intentions and not have them come out of his lips. Not that it seemed to matter too much if they did, given that everyone knew who he was and the abilities that he had when communicating with the dead.
As she asked this question, the man moved to scurry down beneath the shaded cool of the hawe that she had just built. Whilst it was true that the air within would not cool for another few hours, just being out of direct sunlight was a blessing all its own. Muggy heat was a refrain of some sort at least from burning light.
The question of when she had joined the gesin was a surprise.
When Mwenye had crawled down into the shade, she had more than expected him to fall upon his back, perhaps strip down to cool, and rest in his reflated self, glugging with all the water her had consumed in order to reinvigorate his life and mind. It was perhaps the option that she would have taken. And would have permitted her to head off and go about her day. Not that that was such an encouraging thought when she could either stay here and hold pleasant conversation or take on the next slave-applicable task that someone else didn't want to do. Yet, it was still a surprise to have someone as important as a prophet ask a question about herself.
She gave a shrug in response.
"A few weeks, not much more." She didn't bother making it clear that she was a slave - that was more than obvious by the fact that she had catered to his every win since he had come back into the gesin. "Came from the Somalu. I was excited to meet you. Lots of people say they are oracles or soothsayers but, in my experience, very few of them are real..."
Mwenye gave Neena a curious look. "They're not in my head," he corrected her. "I'm just the only one who can hear them." He gave her a wry look. "I didn't know everyone couldn't when I was a child. Caused some interesting times."
It was definitely a relief to be out of the sun.
"I suppose one could pretend to be a prophet if there wasn't a real one around," Mwenye commented thoughtfully, though it seemed to be a concept he hadn't thought about before. "But if someone were wise enough that people couldn't tell the difference, it shouldn't matter, and if you're not, people wouldn't listen, I would think." He shrugged. It would make it disappointing or frustrating if you had to travel to see one, only to find out they couldn't help you, but other than that he didn't see it as a huge scandal, apparently. "Though, people will follow bad leaders if there are no good ones at hand," he acknowledged, "but the Zaire have always had at least one prophet every generation. Not all of them hear the ancestors the way I do - or as often, I guess. Our last leier was a prophet, but he didn't hear them when they spoke to me, only when he sought them out in the smoke tent, or sometimes they simply granted him knowledge directly. Honestly, that way seems more efficient."
The prophet chuckled quietly under his breath. "All right, if I'm recovered enough to think I'm funny, I think I'm recovered enough for food. Any chance you could find me something?"
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Mwenye gave Neena a curious look. "They're not in my head," he corrected her. "I'm just the only one who can hear them." He gave her a wry look. "I didn't know everyone couldn't when I was a child. Caused some interesting times."
It was definitely a relief to be out of the sun.
"I suppose one could pretend to be a prophet if there wasn't a real one around," Mwenye commented thoughtfully, though it seemed to be a concept he hadn't thought about before. "But if someone were wise enough that people couldn't tell the difference, it shouldn't matter, and if you're not, people wouldn't listen, I would think." He shrugged. It would make it disappointing or frustrating if you had to travel to see one, only to find out they couldn't help you, but other than that he didn't see it as a huge scandal, apparently. "Though, people will follow bad leaders if there are no good ones at hand," he acknowledged, "but the Zaire have always had at least one prophet every generation. Not all of them hear the ancestors the way I do - or as often, I guess. Our last leier was a prophet, but he didn't hear them when they spoke to me, only when he sought them out in the smoke tent, or sometimes they simply granted him knowledge directly. Honestly, that way seems more efficient."
The prophet chuckled quietly under his breath. "All right, if I'm recovered enough to think I'm funny, I think I'm recovered enough for food. Any chance you could find me something?"
Mwenye gave Neena a curious look. "They're not in my head," he corrected her. "I'm just the only one who can hear them." He gave her a wry look. "I didn't know everyone couldn't when I was a child. Caused some interesting times."
It was definitely a relief to be out of the sun.
"I suppose one could pretend to be a prophet if there wasn't a real one around," Mwenye commented thoughtfully, though it seemed to be a concept he hadn't thought about before. "But if someone were wise enough that people couldn't tell the difference, it shouldn't matter, and if you're not, people wouldn't listen, I would think." He shrugged. It would make it disappointing or frustrating if you had to travel to see one, only to find out they couldn't help you, but other than that he didn't see it as a huge scandal, apparently. "Though, people will follow bad leaders if there are no good ones at hand," he acknowledged, "but the Zaire have always had at least one prophet every generation. Not all of them hear the ancestors the way I do - or as often, I guess. Our last leier was a prophet, but he didn't hear them when they spoke to me, only when he sought them out in the smoke tent, or sometimes they simply granted him knowledge directly. Honestly, that way seems more efficient."
The prophet chuckled quietly under his breath. "All right, if I'm recovered enough to think I'm funny, I think I'm recovered enough for food. Any chance you could find me something?"
Far from frightened by the notion that Mwenye could hear things that she couldn't, Neena found it amusing when he described the difference between hearing voices solely in his head and just listening to that which everyone else couldn't hear.
"So... it's like, everyone else is deaf?" She asked with curious smile before laughing when he talked of his childhood misunderstanding causing some interesting times. "I'll bet!" She chortled. Instead of fearing the man and his bizarrities, Neena actually seemed to like him for them. Her eyes grew more curious and her stare more intense. She knew so much about most people in different cultures. But she had yet to meet someone that heard voices and could actually explain how they were real to none by him. It was a curious state of being, to be sure.
Then Mwenye talked about the idea that it lying and cons didn't matter if the end result was true enough. The idea that a lying prophet, if wise enough, could be trusted even in their deception. She frowned a little at this idea, confounded by the complexity of the hypocrisy; that someone who lied could, in turn, be trusted as a wise leader. She wasn't so sure she agreed. But then perhaps that was due to her own nature. Neena was pretty upfront and honest about everything she did in life. The idea of hiding something of yourself or pretending to be another person just didn't sit well with her. It didn't make sense.
Neena shrugged a little.
"I'm not sure I would trust someone who could keep up a lie that well." She said lightly. "Lying is a deliberate act. And you have to work at it. I'm not sure someone who spends that much time and effort on their deceptions is someone that I would be able to trust to make other decisions fairly." Then she shrugged again. "Then again, I'm just a slave. So, maybe I don't know any better."
Her words weren't self-flagellating. They were light and amused. She didn't consider herself inferior in her position as a slave - just uninformed. She accepted that potential for ignorance through a strain of humility that she had held true to over the years.
The comment about food had Neena snapping upright. She wasn't someone who generally liked to be ordered about, despite being a slave by vocation. But her interest in the man and how he thought, spoke and heard the voices of others that were silent to most ears, had her blinded to the authority in the request. To her, he needed some food and she wanted to remain in his company so that she could learn more. It was as simple as that.
"Sure!" She assured him. With a quick twist that shifted the sand under her feet, Neena sped off to complete such a task. She moved through hawes and further towards the centre of the camp, looking for someone who was roasting meat or frying some bread in the sand. That was the way of the Bedoan. All food was shared, all resources a communal resource. If someone was cooking, all were welcome to take some. Just so long as they were then allowing when the reverse came to pass.
"Excuse me!" Neena called to a pair of little, older women who were working on some stew in a small pot over a little fire. "Excuse me, but the prophet has returned and is hungry." She explained.
Immediately, Neena was bombarded with those who had overheard her. With the Zaire people a gesin that believed in the security of medicine and the importance of a soul - of the ancestral guidance of their forebears - the prophet was a valuable individual within their culture. He was the pinnacle of significance. If he were hungry, if he needed food, many were happy to jump to command and fetch whatever they could offer and spare.
Within minutes, Neena was loaded up with a bowl of stew, three wide pancakes of bread and a little basket of fruit. She was also given a water skin despite her insisting that he had already had a drink and didn't need more. All of them were pressed into her hands with encouraging words, the women and men of the Zaire eager to see their prophet brought back sustenance that would encourage his voices, his visions. They gave Neena specific instructions, ensuring that she knew for Mwenye to eat the hot food before it began to cool and the cold fruit before it started to warm. She was warned not to eat any of it herself.
She nodded, smiled and agreed with them all, happy to accept the messages, the restrictions and the food. She gave no form of rebellion or rejection, she loaded up her arms happily.
Turning once fully laden, Neena moved back between hawes, forced to the bear the looks of suspicion from those not a part of the discussions. Why a slave was wandering to the outskirts of the camp with so much food almost immediately after the midday repast, they had no idea. They watched her with a critical eye that she returned with a bright and hearty smile.
Neena was pleased to also note that the number of distrusting looked that she received from the people were limited in number. That number had gradually decreased during her stay with the Zaire, as her natural sociability and attitude was able to soften their hearts towards her smile. She was bright and cheerful and hard to dislike.
By the time she reached Mwenye's hawe, Neena was smiling brightly and her mouth was watering with the scent of the roasting meat in the stew. The smell was delicious.
"Hey." She greeted again, as she arrived back at the entryway of his hawe. She lowered herself carefully to her knees, onto the fabric of the floor in the hawe. She was careful to keep all of the food out of the sand. "I think people in this gesin like you." She commented, wryly. Her arms lifted in a little gesture that implied all the stock she still carried. "I couldn't get away before they had given me enough to feed five prophets, however hungry!"
She laughed as she handed over the sustenance, picking a spot beside the doorway of the hawe where she could sit and fold her legs under herself, just in case the man needed anything else.
"Are you ever scared of the voices?" She asked, her natural curiosity bringing the conversation back around to him and her lack of tact foregoing any awkwardness over personal questions.
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Far from frightened by the notion that Mwenye could hear things that she couldn't, Neena found it amusing when he described the difference between hearing voices solely in his head and just listening to that which everyone else couldn't hear.
"So... it's like, everyone else is deaf?" She asked with curious smile before laughing when he talked of his childhood misunderstanding causing some interesting times. "I'll bet!" She chortled. Instead of fearing the man and his bizarrities, Neena actually seemed to like him for them. Her eyes grew more curious and her stare more intense. She knew so much about most people in different cultures. But she had yet to meet someone that heard voices and could actually explain how they were real to none by him. It was a curious state of being, to be sure.
Then Mwenye talked about the idea that it lying and cons didn't matter if the end result was true enough. The idea that a lying prophet, if wise enough, could be trusted even in their deception. She frowned a little at this idea, confounded by the complexity of the hypocrisy; that someone who lied could, in turn, be trusted as a wise leader. She wasn't so sure she agreed. But then perhaps that was due to her own nature. Neena was pretty upfront and honest about everything she did in life. The idea of hiding something of yourself or pretending to be another person just didn't sit well with her. It didn't make sense.
Neena shrugged a little.
"I'm not sure I would trust someone who could keep up a lie that well." She said lightly. "Lying is a deliberate act. And you have to work at it. I'm not sure someone who spends that much time and effort on their deceptions is someone that I would be able to trust to make other decisions fairly." Then she shrugged again. "Then again, I'm just a slave. So, maybe I don't know any better."
Her words weren't self-flagellating. They were light and amused. She didn't consider herself inferior in her position as a slave - just uninformed. She accepted that potential for ignorance through a strain of humility that she had held true to over the years.
The comment about food had Neena snapping upright. She wasn't someone who generally liked to be ordered about, despite being a slave by vocation. But her interest in the man and how he thought, spoke and heard the voices of others that were silent to most ears, had her blinded to the authority in the request. To her, he needed some food and she wanted to remain in his company so that she could learn more. It was as simple as that.
"Sure!" She assured him. With a quick twist that shifted the sand under her feet, Neena sped off to complete such a task. She moved through hawes and further towards the centre of the camp, looking for someone who was roasting meat or frying some bread in the sand. That was the way of the Bedoan. All food was shared, all resources a communal resource. If someone was cooking, all were welcome to take some. Just so long as they were then allowing when the reverse came to pass.
"Excuse me!" Neena called to a pair of little, older women who were working on some stew in a small pot over a little fire. "Excuse me, but the prophet has returned and is hungry." She explained.
Immediately, Neena was bombarded with those who had overheard her. With the Zaire people a gesin that believed in the security of medicine and the importance of a soul - of the ancestral guidance of their forebears - the prophet was a valuable individual within their culture. He was the pinnacle of significance. If he were hungry, if he needed food, many were happy to jump to command and fetch whatever they could offer and spare.
Within minutes, Neena was loaded up with a bowl of stew, three wide pancakes of bread and a little basket of fruit. She was also given a water skin despite her insisting that he had already had a drink and didn't need more. All of them were pressed into her hands with encouraging words, the women and men of the Zaire eager to see their prophet brought back sustenance that would encourage his voices, his visions. They gave Neena specific instructions, ensuring that she knew for Mwenye to eat the hot food before it began to cool and the cold fruit before it started to warm. She was warned not to eat any of it herself.
She nodded, smiled and agreed with them all, happy to accept the messages, the restrictions and the food. She gave no form of rebellion or rejection, she loaded up her arms happily.
Turning once fully laden, Neena moved back between hawes, forced to the bear the looks of suspicion from those not a part of the discussions. Why a slave was wandering to the outskirts of the camp with so much food almost immediately after the midday repast, they had no idea. They watched her with a critical eye that she returned with a bright and hearty smile.
Neena was pleased to also note that the number of distrusting looked that she received from the people were limited in number. That number had gradually decreased during her stay with the Zaire, as her natural sociability and attitude was able to soften their hearts towards her smile. She was bright and cheerful and hard to dislike.
By the time she reached Mwenye's hawe, Neena was smiling brightly and her mouth was watering with the scent of the roasting meat in the stew. The smell was delicious.
"Hey." She greeted again, as she arrived back at the entryway of his hawe. She lowered herself carefully to her knees, onto the fabric of the floor in the hawe. She was careful to keep all of the food out of the sand. "I think people in this gesin like you." She commented, wryly. Her arms lifted in a little gesture that implied all the stock she still carried. "I couldn't get away before they had given me enough to feed five prophets, however hungry!"
She laughed as she handed over the sustenance, picking a spot beside the doorway of the hawe where she could sit and fold her legs under herself, just in case the man needed anything else.
"Are you ever scared of the voices?" She asked, her natural curiosity bringing the conversation back around to him and her lack of tact foregoing any awkwardness over personal questions.
Far from frightened by the notion that Mwenye could hear things that she couldn't, Neena found it amusing when he described the difference between hearing voices solely in his head and just listening to that which everyone else couldn't hear.
"So... it's like, everyone else is deaf?" She asked with curious smile before laughing when he talked of his childhood misunderstanding causing some interesting times. "I'll bet!" She chortled. Instead of fearing the man and his bizarrities, Neena actually seemed to like him for them. Her eyes grew more curious and her stare more intense. She knew so much about most people in different cultures. But she had yet to meet someone that heard voices and could actually explain how they were real to none by him. It was a curious state of being, to be sure.
Then Mwenye talked about the idea that it lying and cons didn't matter if the end result was true enough. The idea that a lying prophet, if wise enough, could be trusted even in their deception. She frowned a little at this idea, confounded by the complexity of the hypocrisy; that someone who lied could, in turn, be trusted as a wise leader. She wasn't so sure she agreed. But then perhaps that was due to her own nature. Neena was pretty upfront and honest about everything she did in life. The idea of hiding something of yourself or pretending to be another person just didn't sit well with her. It didn't make sense.
Neena shrugged a little.
"I'm not sure I would trust someone who could keep up a lie that well." She said lightly. "Lying is a deliberate act. And you have to work at it. I'm not sure someone who spends that much time and effort on their deceptions is someone that I would be able to trust to make other decisions fairly." Then she shrugged again. "Then again, I'm just a slave. So, maybe I don't know any better."
Her words weren't self-flagellating. They were light and amused. She didn't consider herself inferior in her position as a slave - just uninformed. She accepted that potential for ignorance through a strain of humility that she had held true to over the years.
The comment about food had Neena snapping upright. She wasn't someone who generally liked to be ordered about, despite being a slave by vocation. But her interest in the man and how he thought, spoke and heard the voices of others that were silent to most ears, had her blinded to the authority in the request. To her, he needed some food and she wanted to remain in his company so that she could learn more. It was as simple as that.
"Sure!" She assured him. With a quick twist that shifted the sand under her feet, Neena sped off to complete such a task. She moved through hawes and further towards the centre of the camp, looking for someone who was roasting meat or frying some bread in the sand. That was the way of the Bedoan. All food was shared, all resources a communal resource. If someone was cooking, all were welcome to take some. Just so long as they were then allowing when the reverse came to pass.
"Excuse me!" Neena called to a pair of little, older women who were working on some stew in a small pot over a little fire. "Excuse me, but the prophet has returned and is hungry." She explained.
Immediately, Neena was bombarded with those who had overheard her. With the Zaire people a gesin that believed in the security of medicine and the importance of a soul - of the ancestral guidance of their forebears - the prophet was a valuable individual within their culture. He was the pinnacle of significance. If he were hungry, if he needed food, many were happy to jump to command and fetch whatever they could offer and spare.
Within minutes, Neena was loaded up with a bowl of stew, three wide pancakes of bread and a little basket of fruit. She was also given a water skin despite her insisting that he had already had a drink and didn't need more. All of them were pressed into her hands with encouraging words, the women and men of the Zaire eager to see their prophet brought back sustenance that would encourage his voices, his visions. They gave Neena specific instructions, ensuring that she knew for Mwenye to eat the hot food before it began to cool and the cold fruit before it started to warm. She was warned not to eat any of it herself.
She nodded, smiled and agreed with them all, happy to accept the messages, the restrictions and the food. She gave no form of rebellion or rejection, she loaded up her arms happily.
Turning once fully laden, Neena moved back between hawes, forced to the bear the looks of suspicion from those not a part of the discussions. Why a slave was wandering to the outskirts of the camp with so much food almost immediately after the midday repast, they had no idea. They watched her with a critical eye that she returned with a bright and hearty smile.
Neena was pleased to also note that the number of distrusting looked that she received from the people were limited in number. That number had gradually decreased during her stay with the Zaire, as her natural sociability and attitude was able to soften their hearts towards her smile. She was bright and cheerful and hard to dislike.
By the time she reached Mwenye's hawe, Neena was smiling brightly and her mouth was watering with the scent of the roasting meat in the stew. The smell was delicious.
"Hey." She greeted again, as she arrived back at the entryway of his hawe. She lowered herself carefully to her knees, onto the fabric of the floor in the hawe. She was careful to keep all of the food out of the sand. "I think people in this gesin like you." She commented, wryly. Her arms lifted in a little gesture that implied all the stock she still carried. "I couldn't get away before they had given me enough to feed five prophets, however hungry!"
She laughed as she handed over the sustenance, picking a spot beside the doorway of the hawe where she could sit and fold her legs under herself, just in case the man needed anything else.
"Are you ever scared of the voices?" She asked, her natural curiosity bringing the conversation back around to him and her lack of tact foregoing any awkwardness over personal questions.
Mwenye thought about Neena's words as she went to find him food. On the one hand, catching a leader lying about something important would certainly erode trust. On the other hand, sometimes leadership required faking more confidence than one had, at that moment, in order to just get everyone to listen. Where was the difference? Some days, the ancestors spoke clearly and he simply relayed their words and all was well. Some days the ancestors were silent, but people still turned to him for advice anyway...
The young prophet groaned and rubbed his face and wished, momentarily, for much younger days. He had every confidence in Hasani as leir, but life had been rather easier when he'd had an older and wiser prophet to take such questions to.
Listen with your heart as well as your ears, young man. Perhaps they do not speak because you already know the answer. Memory only, as much as Mwenye would have cried tears of joy to hear Hunai's voice again.
But I don't, his younger self had complained.
He still didn't, most of the time. He did his best; but still...
Then Neena returned with very welcome food and a less welcome question.
The short answer was no, and another day he might have given it and moved on, but instead he sighed. "And if I eat more than a tenth of this at once, I'll be sick," he agreed with her first comment. "But I appreciate it." He really did - simple kindness meant more than wordy assurances that he'd been missed.
"Not really," he answered the question once he'd swallowed a few bites of bread. "Sometimes they tell me to do dangerous things," he admitted. "The first time they sent me out into the desert alone, it saved me from the sickness that came to the tribe, but... wandering the sands by yourself is dangerous even for a skilled hunter, and I had only just reached manhood." He had another bite of food, and twisted his mouth into a wry smile. "I'm still not a particularly skilled hunter," he admitted. Adequate, surely - he hadn't starved to death on any of his little adventures yet - but Mwenye had a tendency to compare himself to those he respected the most, more than to the average.
Then there was the whole other issue of whether the voices worried him... He turned his attention to more food rather than open that particular box of scorpions.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Mwenye thought about Neena's words as she went to find him food. On the one hand, catching a leader lying about something important would certainly erode trust. On the other hand, sometimes leadership required faking more confidence than one had, at that moment, in order to just get everyone to listen. Where was the difference? Some days, the ancestors spoke clearly and he simply relayed their words and all was well. Some days the ancestors were silent, but people still turned to him for advice anyway...
The young prophet groaned and rubbed his face and wished, momentarily, for much younger days. He had every confidence in Hasani as leir, but life had been rather easier when he'd had an older and wiser prophet to take such questions to.
Listen with your heart as well as your ears, young man. Perhaps they do not speak because you already know the answer. Memory only, as much as Mwenye would have cried tears of joy to hear Hunai's voice again.
But I don't, his younger self had complained.
He still didn't, most of the time. He did his best; but still...
Then Neena returned with very welcome food and a less welcome question.
The short answer was no, and another day he might have given it and moved on, but instead he sighed. "And if I eat more than a tenth of this at once, I'll be sick," he agreed with her first comment. "But I appreciate it." He really did - simple kindness meant more than wordy assurances that he'd been missed.
"Not really," he answered the question once he'd swallowed a few bites of bread. "Sometimes they tell me to do dangerous things," he admitted. "The first time they sent me out into the desert alone, it saved me from the sickness that came to the tribe, but... wandering the sands by yourself is dangerous even for a skilled hunter, and I had only just reached manhood." He had another bite of food, and twisted his mouth into a wry smile. "I'm still not a particularly skilled hunter," he admitted. Adequate, surely - he hadn't starved to death on any of his little adventures yet - but Mwenye had a tendency to compare himself to those he respected the most, more than to the average.
Then there was the whole other issue of whether the voices worried him... He turned his attention to more food rather than open that particular box of scorpions.
Mwenye thought about Neena's words as she went to find him food. On the one hand, catching a leader lying about something important would certainly erode trust. On the other hand, sometimes leadership required faking more confidence than one had, at that moment, in order to just get everyone to listen. Where was the difference? Some days, the ancestors spoke clearly and he simply relayed their words and all was well. Some days the ancestors were silent, but people still turned to him for advice anyway...
The young prophet groaned and rubbed his face and wished, momentarily, for much younger days. He had every confidence in Hasani as leir, but life had been rather easier when he'd had an older and wiser prophet to take such questions to.
Listen with your heart as well as your ears, young man. Perhaps they do not speak because you already know the answer. Memory only, as much as Mwenye would have cried tears of joy to hear Hunai's voice again.
But I don't, his younger self had complained.
He still didn't, most of the time. He did his best; but still...
Then Neena returned with very welcome food and a less welcome question.
The short answer was no, and another day he might have given it and moved on, but instead he sighed. "And if I eat more than a tenth of this at once, I'll be sick," he agreed with her first comment. "But I appreciate it." He really did - simple kindness meant more than wordy assurances that he'd been missed.
"Not really," he answered the question once he'd swallowed a few bites of bread. "Sometimes they tell me to do dangerous things," he admitted. "The first time they sent me out into the desert alone, it saved me from the sickness that came to the tribe, but... wandering the sands by yourself is dangerous even for a skilled hunter, and I had only just reached manhood." He had another bite of food, and twisted his mouth into a wry smile. "I'm still not a particularly skilled hunter," he admitted. Adequate, surely - he hadn't starved to death on any of his little adventures yet - but Mwenye had a tendency to compare himself to those he respected the most, more than to the average.
Then there was the whole other issue of whether the voices worried him... He turned his attention to more food rather than open that particular box of scorpions.