[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Jasara watched as Khasia stalked off, leaving her sister and Nasir by the creek. Jasara hated her sister’s attitude. Khasia never thought the ideas Jasara proclaimed would work, even when Jasara knew they would. Despite the fear the voice gave her, Jasara had a strange sort of trust in the voice. It led her to say the things she did. Jasara, under normal circumstances, would never have spoken up that pre-flood night if she had not trusted the voice.

“We should go, and even if we can’t convince anyone tonight, the Painted Sand Tribe will be camped there for a while,” continued Jasara after a long silence that had followed her sister’s leave. Nasir eyed Jasara warily and wearily, but in the end simply nodded his agreement.

“I have to go get my sword. Perhaps Najah should come too,” was all Nasir said as he and Jasara stood in unison. They made their way back towards where several of the young were just waking from their late sleep. Most of the young were already up and about doing chores. One of the young they passed by, Najah, was shuffling by with a bow in hand and quiver over her shoulder. She was directing a group of younger children to a clearing for a morning target practice.

“Wait! Najah!” Nasir called to the girl. Najah whirled around, and joined the duo. Nasir quickly explained the situation to her, and the girl told the other young to be ready when she came back. Jasara had remained silent, and the trio was soon on their way east towards the Painted Sand Tribe’s encampment. Before they left the ‘boundaries’ of their own tribe, they passed by Khasia, who was fervently stitching and repairing clothing.

“Khasia! Come along! We’re off for some fresh rebel meat!” cried Najah, and Jasara sighed when the archer called out for her sister. Najah was no doubt frightened to some degree of being so near to Jasara in such small numbers, especially with the stern Nasir. All of the children praised or listened to Jasara’s orders, but few could tolerate being so close to the ‘prophet’. At the calling, Khasia quickly threw down the torn and tattered skirt she had recently begun to stitch and ran up to join the group.

It had not been a long walk when the small group reached the back end of one of the outer tents of the encampment. The sun was high, and the ground under Jasara’s feet began to heat up as the girl wished she had remembered to wear her boots. People of the Painted Sand Tribe milled around, talking and walking and working from tent to tent and everywhere betwixt and between. Two girls walked particularly close to the gathered, hiding young from the Baobab Tribe, and Nasir called out to one.

“You! Girl, over here!” He cried. Jasara squinted her eyes against the sun and noted that the girl Nasir had beckoned could not have had much difference in age from Khasia or Najah. Her companion looked as if she were a few years older than Rijal, but younger than the first girl. Then again, Rijal was such a scrawny thing that the second girl might have even been the same age. The two girls stared blankly at the four at first, and the younger one mumbled something about being convinced to leave home without her kinsman escort before they made their way over to Jasara, Nasir, Najah, and Khasia.