[i]"Osahar."[/i]

Osahar turned his head to peer over his shoulder, and looked upon his former mentor. His placid expression remained undisturbed, taking short note of the man's now-greying hair and briefly recalling the many years spent being beaten into his current strength. Osahar had matured finely, and from the flatness of the bridge of his nose to his outstanding sense of duty, he near perfectly reflected the image of his father before him. And now, in the hours approaching his trial, he was able to stand before his old teacher not as a student, but as an equal. 

"Are you troubled?" The mentor, known recently as Elder Sebak, spoke frankly. His voice had begun to crack with his creeping age, and the deep scar which painted his face had begun to twist into his frown lines.

"No." Osahar had averted his gaze, irate by the lie on his tongue. "I have encountered many beasts before."

"Women are not beasts, Osahar."

"You know what I meant."

The elder chuckled, amused by the lingering anger which had always ghosted the boy's expression. "There's more to your trials than desert terrors. You know this."

Osahar said no more, and returned his attention to his movements, in which he reached to lift his hair into a small bundle at the back of his head and allowed the olive flesh of his back to breathe. The skin around his shoulders had been heavily tattooed, as per tradition of successful hunts. The city had indeed grown beyond imagination, yet the tribe's ties to their once nomadic traditions remained strong, and the transition from boyhood was a decorated process.

"Ah," Sebak raised his voice again, remembering why he had approached in the first place. "The Chief would see you now. Ludicrous it would be, to spend the ceremony in here."

[hr]

Parting the crowd was difficult, for each attendee longed to speak to the heir and bid him good luck before the farewell. The populace grew sparse as he approached the more guarded dais, and he met the gaze of the Chief, whom Osahar had learned to idolise from afar as a boy.

He had always been told that this was his path to take, yet even now the sands felt like nought more than a dream. But the dream had twisted only recently, for he had lost the woman who he had slowly learned to care for. The question as to whether he had loved her had never crossed his mind, but he remembered her dearly, and the wound had only been salted by the fact that the council had merely treated her passing as a change of plan. 

For a while, all had been led to believe it was poison; she had choked on her own blood, and all accounts of poisoned wine seemed to lead back to the Priestess who had presented alongside her. And worse still, the Priestess in question had served as the replacement, having been dismissed of any and all accusations. Osahar still remained dubious, and undeniably raw. His jaw tightened at the sight of her also approaching the dais, and his glare might have lingered for too long.

"Kayo." He swallowed his thoughts heavily, and spoke politely, offering a subtle nod of greeting.