ROLEPLAY

Day broke, greeted by the yawn of Armas.

In the camp, the travelers were already busy. Tent after tent was folded, and the bats of the mektoubs were once again loaded. Around the dying fire, some were quickly sipping a bowl of capryni milk.
The caravan leader, who was among them, approached his son.

He was sitting cross-legged, his eyes fixed on the glowing embers, his hair tousled from a night in the tent. He also didn't look very awake.

"So, Cinabre, feeling good? " asked the father without waiting for an answer. "Forget the discomfort of the night and breathe in the fresh morning air. Soon your feet will be treading the warm sawdust of the desert, it's worth a little effort, isn't it? "

The weather in the forest, on the other hand, was rather damp.
"We can dry off a bit"said the child in a half-smiling, half-playful tone.
He then turned his gaze to his father.

"But, Dad, Cuidero told me the caravan would stop at the Hidden Spring Outpost. Didn't you tell me we'd be going to Thesos? "

"Of course we're going, but only the two of us. I hope we'll find some craftsmen who aren't too hostile to "pale skins". We'll have to keep a low profile once we're in town. I want us to make a good impression. Especially since, from what I've heard, the akenakos of Thesos is a pure-bred fyros, not very friendly with Matis..."

Cinabre buried himself under the cool sheets of his bed. A fire in the corner of the room was struggling to warm her. Another day passed and withered away like a elyewae ephemeral.

Another day that brings with it joys and leaves for tomorrow its burden of worries. A day far too short.

Cinabre was lonely. Synoeca was in the best of health.
The Lochi would soon welcome him as their ambassador.

But ... "But what, by the way?" wondered the young Matis. "Nothing... after all... I Silam also has its ups and downs."

Just before closing his eyes, Cinabre thought about what lay ahead in the next few days. A new convoy to organize. The Heretic's hovel.

The night passed like a gust of wind. Dreams had not furnished it.

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The mektoubs kicked their hooves impatiently on the mossy ground. They had spent a restful night on a comfortable bed. Around them, loading their packs, a small group of homins and homines were hurrying along, despite the early hour.

Then, with the sound of a horn, the caravan set off, bumpily between the white bollards.

Cinabre, erect in his stirrups, gave an encouraging pat to Gypsum, his white gubani.

He had strapped on his black kostomyx, a gift from a Fyrosse he'd met on his previous trip. Slung over his shoulder, he carried his Klout axe, which was beginning to brown and dull.

Despite all this warlike paraphernalia, the young Matis was not so serene. This was his first caravan...

He sucked in a great deal of air, despite the filter in his helmet, then moved ahead of the long line of mektoubs.

La Masure, then the Lochis. The embassy.

By now, the fire was crackling, and a meagre grill was losing its grease as it smoked. A makeshift camp had been set up. The mounts were happily grazing, judging by their barks and grunts.

Cinabre had sat aside and was chatting with a Matisse dressed in mauve and black. Her blond hair was neatly combed and cut short. A dark amber symbol, depicting a tortured tree, was pinned to her doublet.

Finally, Cinabre nodded, and the hominin's features showed their satisfaction.

"Fila, ser Andertini she said in a relieved voice. "You really took an irena off my foot".

The young Matis nodded. The homine pretended to get up and walk away, but half-turning, she added:

"I certainly don't need to recommend absolute discretion... Meria naia, ser Andertini"