[color=9e0b0f][center][h2]George Andre Tir[/h2][/center][/color]
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[i][b]Several suns ago…[/b][/i]

George heaved the wooden crate of supplies from the ground up to his back, held in place with rope, the box testing its strength as it is lifted to the Marishu town giant’s shoulders. The trader, delivering fabrics and metal sheets, had settled to meet many yards away from the Marishu forge, not by choice but by the man’s old horse collapsing in fatigue and hot sun. Not many travellers are prepared to handle the extreme heat but the Salahari have come to love it, bathing in its stinging embrace. That does not mean that the Salahari do not complain about the heat, of course, so when George was told to retrieve the supply crate, he greeted the task with distaste. The crate normally would require the breath of two men’s reach to bring it around, but with the giant’s size, it was a simple task. 

Salahari sandals and footwear gave the stability needed for people to walk on the land’s fiery, loose sands away from the packed sands of the urbanized cities and lands. His huge feet dug into the slope but he continued his tread. Passing by were the other busy traders commuting by horse and camel, each donning colours and styles unique to their origins: crisp, neat, different palettes and shades, contrasting heavily to the bright red, yellow, and orange robes, scarves, and turbans, loose and long that drag and crawl alongside their bodies in the sands, metaphorical of wild eagles that grace the lands. As George reached the top of the slope, he entered the wide avenue filled with life. By the distance and size of the sun, it was at its highest and brightest, and therefore plenty of time was available before sunset. To the side, stalls shaded with dark fabrics, tied with rope and strong wood, displayed their wares ranging from fantastic jewelry, pungent spices, handmade clothing, and even exotic pets. In turn, crowds from all over, local or not, huddled in packs under the shadows of self-maintained marble houses, each person shouting over each other. Hundreds of tongues and dialects echo the ears of many every day. To those unfamiliar with the languages, the Salahari speak in an almost offensive, rugged tone, rough in quality but strong in declaration - those unfamiliar would fail to realize its simple grammar, the intricate tonality, and the in-laid culture of respect and acceptance its vocabulary is derived from. George surveyed the area from his towering height to see that the regular people sold the same inventory, committed to the same way of persuasion, bargaining, and transaction. Local work animals were identifiable from the foreign ones as they were adorned with jewelry, garments, brandings, and tattoos that represented their quality of workmanship, and their breeders’ prides and effort into their lifestyle. 

Upon seeing George, which was not a hard task at all, a group of children ran over to climb his legs and torso to see the view from above. The same children who played with their Salahari, dark-skinned, hairless but powerful mutts and with their games of marbles and strings, flocked to call in the chance to see their friendly town giant and to traverse his height, like achieving feats of an intense magnitude, or more really for jovial fun. People livened up to see George and greeted him as he passed. Fighting off the urge to wipe his sweaty brow, he smiled in turn to everyone. Far ahead, a group of musicians, sat on a bright blue carpet, were playing with their traditional instruments, busking and providing entertainment to passersby. When they saw George closing in, they nudged to each other and played a new tune, a slow, dissonant melody that told the story of the child born after a tragic event. Everyone knew George’s story, pitied him, and though they liked him, they knew that in many ways he was in a social caste lower than everyone, so there was that understanding of not being able to have the mutual respect. As George and children neared an intersection, he noted that people stopped in their tracks, making way for something. If there was any indication of the heavy presence of social division in Salahar, this was it: for a group of priests and nuns, accompanied by well-dressed tigers and servants throwing petals of desert wildflowers, dressed in white silks that covered their entire bodies, including their face, walked slowly but sternly in a steady march to their church on the other side of town. In this way, their pristine colour graced their people and their lands with the purity, elegance, and fortune of the Sultan Syjza of Salahar. Everyone watched the group as they passed, but the group paid attention to no one. 

The forge was in sight, a simple marble building except it was covered in soot and from every orifice bellowed a trail of smoke, heavier and more prominent in the back where the actual blacksmithing occurs. George entered the room where sales were made, the doorway at the furthest back displaying the metalworks, working men, and scalding heat in the hearts of the forge, craning his head down to fit through the door, the earthen floors a sigh of comfort for his feet, and a large seat welcoming his aching back. He dropped the wooden crate and sat down, reaching for the jug of water and downing its contents in one go. Many jugs littered the table covered in papers and maps, all text and graphics either pertaining to order requests and receipts filled with details and destinations. The other table opposite him was the attention of the many master blacksmiths, the owner, and several apprentices including George himself. 

He had discussed this with his family already. Though upset, this opportunity would be great for him to grow, to fit into the gloves and shoes of a blacksmith. Besides, with three other grown-up childrens to take care of the family, there was not much to worry - that, and the expedition was done before and was deemed safe, with travel lasting no more than a week, and the stay lasting no more than four to five fortnights, if there were no complications. With George being a young adult of his size and calibre, the family was confident he would be okay. 

That said, with every meeting, tonight being the final with the crate containing the final few supplies they needed, George thought heavily of his family and how he would miss them. He would never look at the maps or listen to the minor details of the expedition, and instead look at the Mark that was on his wrist. He trusted that his seniors would know what to do and to take care of the young ones, but they had no answer for whether the tale was true for George finding his Destined. He met the upcoming journey to be fruitful in learning the blacksmith trade as well as learning the qualities it takes to be a man. 

There was to be a forge open to their use in Orewyn, where they may brandish their Salahari flag, colours, and metalcasting for showcase and sales. George returned home one last time to feast and bring his own bag of necessities in ready for their journey, embarking from their forge to the counterpart in an exciting new land.

Before their departure, a temple nun visited the forge. The group of men and women gathered before her and resting on their one knee on the ground, head faced down, to listen to her prayer, to bless them good luck and fortune, for safety and health, and for good bodings and futures.


***

No horse, even a Salahari horse, would carry George for too long on his saddle, so for the past few suns George and a few young men and women stayed in one of many large carriages, trudged along by many strong horses, its cabin carrying one of many expensive batches of cargo. It was morning and the weather, very much cooler than the extreme heats of the Salahari sun they were used to, made them shiver, but their long robes served their purpose. 

The foreman, in charge of navigation, spoke to the crew that it would be another few suns before they complete riding through the circumference of the impassable mountain. No risks or dangers had posed themselves to the huge company of ten carriages and over fifty souls, protected by six Salahari Knights, donning pristine white colours - very much like the blessed nuns and priests from the Sultan Syjza of Salahar - with long, sharp scimitars. Their company would be most likely feared and doubted upon arrival, but the people of Orewyn have conducted trade with the Salahari before. This mass voyage will be fruitful and eye-opening, as it will be for George.