The Mikanna were late.

They had made a quiet arrival - so quiet, in fact, that few would have even noted their presence as another tribe's procession, had it not been for the helmets they wore and the three men on horseback leading the eight on foot. From afar, two of the three riders looked an awful lot like giants riding men's horses, with their voluminous clothes and tall-domed helmets. To some onlookers, the sight was perhaps terrifying, but to others, perhaps it was simply absurd. Yet, even from the distance, one could say that the one in their midst did indeed come from giants' stock, and it was no other than their Chief, Anabinpāl, who, ironically, looked the humblest of them all. With how his hands held tight onto the reins of his mount, how his shoulders hunched, and how his face seemed lost in thought, he looked more like a runaway beast, captured and brought to parade by the two riders beside him.

Although the expression on his face was a thoughtful one, inside, he was more annoyed than contemplative. The wooden domes attached to their helmets had taken far longer to craft than he'd hoped, and on top of it all, the design had turned out more like the top fin of a sheatfish than the envisioned look of a blade edge. He'd done away with his entirely, seeing no reason to wear a disappointment that delayed their arrival and made him look even stranger. At the very least, he hoped that the folding cuirass he'd worn underneath his cape, partly to tuck his belly in, and partly to show off the craftsmanship skills of the Sidda, would make an interesting proposition to the more martial minded chiefs. He hadn't come here expecting to be made leader of all clans. 

In truth, he was not here with any high hopes whatsoever. Even after so many years, Anabinpāl felt unwelcome in his place of power, and even though it would be an affront to his reputation to say it out loud, would much rather stay out of the spotlight. Better an outsider unseen than one in the flesh, he thought to himself, but here he was, and there was nothing he could do to change that now. His foot hurt and his belly ached from the tight fitting armor - he would rather be at home with Elenig, eating boar, while that fool of an eldest son by his side, Iannan, could have made himself useful for once and represented the tribe and family properly. 

"We are close, father. The village is in sight."

Anabinpāl responded with a slight nod. He remembered how happy they had been after this one's birth. His wife had been overjoyed - he himself had simply been relieved. And now, almost twenty-five winters after his birth, Iannan felt more like a burden to his father than he had ever been. He was a fair and kind-hearted lad, who'd taken after his mother in terms of demeanor, but Anabinpāl knew well that being a good lad was not enough to spare him, or his siblings, from the horrors of the deluge to come after his passing. And with every passing day, that knowledge weighed more and more on the Chief's shoulders.

Anabinpāl turned to his left, and addressed the other rider. Meseric was his name; he was a childhood friend of Iannan's, one who'd accompanied him as a youth, and now still accompanied him, while Iannan himself now accompanied his father. Their bond was good enough, and for all his grim demeanor, Meseric was a lad wise enough to realize, and put to practice, the ways of authority. He would be a good adviser to Iannan in times to come, even if not the most liked.

"I shall go up alone. Set up camp close to the other tribes, but not too close," Anabinpāl informed him, before nudging the horse's belly with his heels to make it canter forth.