Home

I have noticed alot of noise here in this enlarged camp. It sometimes reminds me of being with the carnival caravan, and I half expect to see people dancing through the alleys and around the wagons, maybe even some with blue painted faces. I did manage to coerce a few gaggles of children close enough to ask why it seemed there was so much going on. At one point, one of the children's mothers trailed behind and she did not seemed pleased that I was keeping them audience.

It was the first time I came face to face with a bit of disdain here. I wasn't entirely sure how to react, but from what I could gather, since I was not Tuchuk, nor at least had the decency to be a properly reduced to nothing but weak dweller slave, her children were in danger of some sort. Pride was flashing in her eyes though, and who could blame a mother for protecting her young? I explained that I was new here, and found all the noise of drums and sounds fascinating. I wondered about all the activity, and the bit of talk I had overheard about preparations. I wondered if there was some celebration to be taking place, and must have sparked an interest in her thoughts somewhere. She stood taller and smiled, telling me that they were preparing for the great move South in a few days time.

From what I can gather, it is the great move of the wagon peoples to return to their home in the south that I have heard of. It is during that time that the small villages and settlements on the plains worried the most about being raided and pillaged. Our ranch had only faced a raid once, and it was long before I had been born. I found it rather exciting, and a bit daunting too. Moving all that way with all these wagons must be quite an undertaking. I had a little bit of happiness to be on this side of the raiding as well.

The woman and children left then, leaving me to my thoughts of the move ahead, and a melancholy remembrance of the ranch. Many of the things I had overheard, or were actually told, were starting to fall into some semblance of order and understanding. All the work on repairs and preparations, combined with the festive energy. The helping hands of so many, stepping up to relieve the harder tasks for some. This place, this conglomeration of wagons and people reminded me in ways of my home on the ranch. People who cared about each other, stood side by side against foe, and held a collective pride. It was a bit of stability in my still upended world of decisions. That, and oddly, the chain I was still attached to. I retreated into the confines of the wagon, trailing the links through my fingers as I walked slowly. I should have been eager to taste the dirt beneath my running feet, but I was not. I should have been aching for the departure from Yama, but I was not. Curious, I finally decided that would all come in time. I had taken some comfort in being right where I was supposed to be, as it would seem.

I took a look around the insides of the wagon where I had spent much of my time. There is a stark neatness to it, interrupted by a splash of contrast now and again. While I am not sure where my Brave Warrior sleeps, there is enough personal effects to make me think this is his primary wagon. There are a few little things that make me think there is a woman somewhere as well. What strikes me the most, however, is the lack of lived in feeling. A sense of...home. Perhaps it is just that I have not been in enough men's residences to know better. I've not really been in -any- man's residence.

From the looks of things, there is not that much packing to do. Perhaps he had taken care of the most of it, but a trace of undisturbed dust on the lip of one trunk made me think it had not even been unpacked. About the only place that looked really lived in was the corner where I often sat. My journal lay open against the floor, my pelt crumpled up next to it, as if I had been called away mid thought. I decided to try and be a bit useful, packing up the things that I didn't think would be used within the next few days. It got me to thinking about the Warrior Fonce. Was he even taking the time to take care of himself?

I had seen it before, especially when someone tried to work through grief, disappointment, or simply loneliness. They poured themselves into task after task, but forgot the most important task of all. Themselves. Or maybe it was just something men do, focusing on fixing, hard labor, and ensuring that all they care for is taken care of. Whatever motivated it, I was going to do what I thought could help. I started with the few cans of spices still on a shelf. Cinnamon, pepper and something I was not familiar with. They made it into a basket, only to be brought right back out again. Instead, I shared a few pages of my journal and used moistened spice dust to make a few pictures to tack on the wall. Doesn't every home need a good sunset hanging on it's canvas?

When sunrise came and Dee brought me the morning meal, sitting to talk for a few brief moments, I had several things on my mind. I cajoled and bargained and eventually secured a promise from Dee to take a nice hot meal and a fresh bota of water out to where ever the Brave Warrior was working, or helping, as i figured he would be. Dee had brought me some of those succulent fresh dates and I tied them up in a clean strip from the remains of the white dress into a little knotted bag for Dee to give to him also. Dee asked if there was a message to go along with it and I thought for a while and then nodded after a moment. "Yes, tell him I miss his ears." I also promised some type of repayment if she would get me one of those buckets of water. Today, the tunic was going to be cleaned.