Ogun Itọjus
12 Cylus, Arc 720
12 Cylus, Arc 720
He had been in town for far too long this time. The comfort of home had lulled him into basking in the warmth of the familiar. He had forgotten the need, his need, to be back in the unfamiliarity of unknown trails and roads. There were new places to see and people to meet. His shouldn't have allowed himself to be denied of what his curiosity usually demanded: the open road. It would be best to leave soon.
He held his bedroll in his hand, its down-filled leather beaten and lumpy over arcs of use. He had contemplated getting a new one. Surely his mother, in her infinite support and violent generosity, would have been willing to stitch him a new one. All he would have to do was ask. Yet he didn't. She was, after all, an elder in the small village of Ogun Itọjus, a fact that its inhabitants never let her forget. As far as Nam'id was concerned, they needed her more than he.
He stopped and reached into his pack as he reached the foot of his wagon. He pulled the journals out and locked them carefully into one of twin oaken strongboxes secured to the rear of the conestoga. The rest of the supplies were deposited in the bed, though a single apple fell out and picked up speed as it rolled to the other side.
Nam'id's eyes narrowed as he watched the apple roll away. That shouldn't have happened. He had helped Hish'oon, one of the tribe's better craftsmen, build this wagon when he was younger and knew how well it was balanced. Also, he had learned long ago to secure his wagon on level ground, lest he find himself chasing it the following morning. Learned the hard way, though he didn't wish to dwell on that story this morning.
He walked around to the other side and knelt down by the wheel underneath the driver's seat. He sighed as his heart sank. The wheel had been broken, its connection to the wagon's axle bent beyond use. The wagon sat at a terrible slant without it.
Oooh… That's not good, came a voice from inside of his head.
Nam'id looked up to see the wispy head of Moaxatl'otatsu, his monkey Ose-bori, poke out from inside of the wagon. Its tail moved around snake-like behind its head.
No, Mox. It isn't, Nam'id thought in response. He sifted through a pile of broken wood pieces left on the ground.
Mox hopped down from the wagon and came to a sitting position beside the man. It poked at the broken wheel with a smokey finger, then turned its head to look at the underside of the wagon.
So we walk, yes? This is much better. On foot. Just as Moseke intended.
Nam'id looked over at Mox with a raised eyebrow. Easy for you. You can't carry any of the supplies, he thought. The familiar looked about to protest, but its gaze shifted behind the man.
One comes…
Nam'id stood and turned to see Chiko'tae walking towards him. The man was powerfully built, his lean arms tattooed and exposed to the morning sun. He had a feather poking up from behind his head. His black hair was left loose around his shoulder. His dark eyes were trained on Nam'id. He waved in greeting, and Nam'id returned the gesture.
"Good morning," Chiko'tae said in Xanthean before coming to a stop and looking down at the wheel. "A wagon without a wheel. It will be hard to leave."
After reading the man's mouth as he spoke, Nam'id reached into his shirt and produced a heavily worn journal and a thin piece of charred wood. He flipped through a number of pages, found one, then began scrawling onto it. He then lifted the journal to show it to the other man.
Not hard. Just delayed. It can be fixed.
"I would help you," he said, "but this isn't my skill. You understand."
Nam'id smiled and nodded in agreement.
Chiko'tae placed a powerful hand atop Nam'id's shoulder. "Let Hish'oon fix it. This is one of his wagon's, yes?" Nam'id nodded again. "Good. He owes me a favor or two. We haven't talked much, Nam'id. Well, you haven't had to listen to- er... watch me talk." Chiko'tae smiled, though there was a certain warmth missing from the gesture. "Maybe we could spar? One last time before you leave?"
The misty-gray form of Mox came around to the side and looked up at Chiko'tae.
I don't like this one.
He is of the village. Like a brother, Mox. What's not to like? he thought, but received no response.
He wrote into his journal again before showing it to Chiko'tae.
Not hard. Just delayed. It can be fixed.
Lead the way.
Nam'id.