- Messages
- 7
- Character Biography
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"Sal-iilum yawmina siegħa, saeuta, nitqat, 'aħal-min-familati salegħi u 'il-kowaeazmutagħha, u għawasiħatay, eadluizzja tagħha."
A warm breeze whipped in from the North, dry and burning with salt and loose grains of sand, tasting of sweet kelp and hunting-fish.
"Sal-iilum yawmina siegħa, saeuta, nitqat, 'aħal-min-familati salegħi u 'il-kowaeazmutagħha, u għawasiħatay, eadluizzja tagħha."
The leaves of mastic and date trees rustle softly, feral cotton stubby and strong at their bases. A thicket of thyme filling the air with citrus and leaf-loam.
"Sal-iilum yawmina siegħa, saeuta, nitqat, 'aħal-min-familati salegħi u 'il-kowaeazmutagħha, u għawasiħatay, eadluizzja tagħha."
Salih stands waist-deep in a tiny, threading tributary of the Cairou quite South of Elbion, shaded and glittered with sunspots. He stands erect, eyes closed and face upturned, as he announces his morning prayer.
It was his first opportunity for bathing in Kaliti waters since he began to return from his Eastward trek. He had never heard of Elbion having good public bathhouses, for such a place so near the finest ones in Arethil. Salih, once, would have expected so, given trade and proximity, and yet the passing souls in Maraan often looked surprised at the suggestion of beauty and consideration in such places. So he chose this small stream, and the quicker path home.
He inhales softly and makes a motion with his left hand over his heart, throat, and head, and then opens his eyes.
"Hi mitad-deżahra' taefri qalbi."
Salih sighs, a brilliant, reverberating sound, awash with weariness and relative peace. He walks to the shore to dry in the sun and air, gather his clothes from the branches of a date tree to pile upon his pack, and retrieve a wide comb. He begins combing his waist-length hair, a habit he is proud to keep, and after a handful of far too quick minutes, he finishes.
Once he has thoroughly dried and redressed his hair in an intricate oiled twist, and clothed himself from his white protective layers to his colourful mid and outer layers, and laid upon him his keffiyeh and agal, he readies his baggage and kissar. Giving a final broad, long stretch, he then slings his pack upon his shoulders, takes up his banner, and makes West, the wind covering his wide, shallow footfalls.
"Il Maraa-Abtati, my friends, show to me your travel tents."
The sun had risen seven fingers from the horizon when Salih spotted the grand arches of Maraan in the distance, hazy and garlanded with banners. In front of him, some eighty full strides, a small clutch of tents painted in fields of scenery had been pitched firmly to withstand the blowing wind. Two looked to be of the city. One of the ocean. Two of the desert. And a final sixth an Oasis. From within the circle a rivulet of smoke from a dying fire disperses into the air, and the back-and-forth of Maraa-Abtati traders and their wards preparing to travel the rest of the way to the twin-arched trade city cast dancing shadows upon the dunes.
Home.