)(

Seeker has been learning well. She picked up on staying at the outside of the boots after a dozen times of stepping on her paws when she tried to weave between them as I walked, and half a dozen times of me tripping over her for a graceful spill to the ground. It was almost thought worth it when the pretty Tuchuk Maidens would run over with sounds of awing, though I was the one totally bypassed and Seeker given all the embraces and kisses. Yes, my luck. Though a young child walked up offering me a piece of his jerky as he stood next to me while I was peeling myself off the ground stating the obvious. "I think they like the sleen better then you" I could only chuckle, dusting myself off as I stood up again. Sharply I called Seeker over. Quickly she was back at my side, and I ruffled the boys hair as I started back towards the Healer wagons I was headed for to begin with.

During our walk I meet a young Weaver, and Salt Hunter. They were not mated, but seemed to work well together as a duo. I was impressed at the compassion both had with a young child, the Weavers brother, they were caring for. The boy had taken a spill, and seemed like a brave young Warrior. His wounds were minor, only needed to keep them clean. We did an exchange of goods and services. I would go see the ailing Father, and I offered the Weaver the wool from my herd of Verr. I would dare say I had as many as I had Bosk. It was a good handful of seasons ago I call the year of the Verr, I swear by the Sky it was the only payment I got. It was a good year. The Salt Hunter said he would be able to get me salt from the Thassa. That was rare in this parts, something that was a prime prize to remove from the Dwellers who dared the plains in wagons. The thought of raids made my blood kindle. I considered going to talk to the outer ring of riders. They and the hunters knew the winds and travels well. I felt the burn. The taste for victory in battle and will of the sky so be it, in death.

I swallowed it down, a Warrior with a heart that surged with anticipation of feeling blood between his fingers, the breaths taken by the fist that would tighten at a throat until its jerk of struggle was gone. This Warrior that breathed desire of violence. Made it just on time, with a pale yellow blanket in his hand, a sobbing Warrior on the steps of the wagon saying the only woman he has ever loved with his last breath was dying. I ran up the steps, to find Hannah in Labor. She had been suffering all day and refused to let her mate come for me. She wanted to be strong, prove she would be a good mother. I have to respect that. I let the birthing women surround her and I waited out with her Mate who was looking pale now. She was screaming, it was times like this, I wish I worked with a woman Healer. It still made me uncomfortable to invade a woman's personal space, no matter how many times I do so. Once we both get past that first moment of lifting leathers, things were all business. I waited until her mate gave me permission to go in, which was in the form of, him lifting me up and almost throwing me into the leather flaps of the entrance when she screamed again. I quickly talked to her calmly, looking at the blood that was staining the furs. The child was having hard time getting out. Cleaning a quiva, I told her honestly, this would hurt, needing to do a slice to make room for the baby to come out, for she was starting to tear, and to cut would reduce the damage, and give the room the baby needed. Within two ehns, a new Warrior joined the tribe. The women cleaned him, wrapped him in the pale yellow blanket I brought as a gift from the Weaver, and quickly stitched her as I was amazed how the two women who had to be three times as old as myself, were keeping the massive Warrior out until I was finished.

The night ended well. Blood was on my hands as I had craved, but it was a victory sweeter then death. A victory of life.

)(

I am no yearkeeper but I keep strands of bone beads on a rack that helps me keep track of the days in each season. I keep a record of these things. My Father taught me to read and write as a young boy, though to play ignorant near Dwellers was a bit of amusement to me. It was necessary when the merchants came, or raids to find what drugs are what in liquid or powered forms that might be held in painted labeled bottles or jars. The date keeping helps me keep track of some patients that have those long standing injuries or aliments that return often. There are days I can have the walls of my healing wagon completely lined with strings of bone beads, others where only a few might give a hint of mere decoration. Between my walks of the Ubar's wagons to see where I might give a hand in whatever needs to be done, I met an Elder Warrior by chance. Somehow, just from first glance, he had his hand locked in a chest he had dragged out of the wagon, and was trying to kick to remove the hinges from the lid to at least free his hand which by the hue of wrist was losing blood and circulation. I am impressed though, wondering what kind of strength could have sealed it so tightly, and professionally locked it with a slave shackle though the loops one might place just a basic leather knotted lacing. The Warrior, but by the knot on his forehead and completely soaked, I could tell this was a great tale I had missed the beginning of, and he didn't ask for help of any kind, so I thought to keep walking. The knot of course had me go slow, to make sure he wasn't stumbling beyond the normal fury of what was happening, for I didn't want to add to the scene which was a small gathering of slaves hiding under wheels and a few curious children probably in wonder like myself, that each time the Warrior kicked the trunk, it screamed. Even pleaded a few times. I had to smile, but let my hand wipe it free before walking up with a very straight face, as the giggling children behind me were not helping at all. I did inquire, if I may help.

Being a healer, or trained as one since the day my Father first brought me home, I have mastered the skill, and it took a very long time, of not laughing at the patient. Even when you have to ask, just have to ask, How did that happen? It took another few years to stop even a hint of chuckle when your forced to further inquire, why did they stick it there, or who would tell you to rub it on it, or even my favorite, what made you ever think it wouldn't get bit off? Today, was one of those moments. It seems, the Warriors mate of seasons far beyond my own, and I am not a young man, didn't like the asking of "How about just one time? One time before the Sky takes us both" when trying to get his mate to just put a bit of silk around her even with her leathers on. Somehow, she struck him so quickly he was down, shoved a slave in the silk chest and his hand, if he wanted to feel flesh on silk so badly. That was the way he woke up after being doused with water and seeing his mate walk off with her sewing basket and the great grand children. He finally had stopped kicking and took a seat on the ground so I could walk over and take a look. The trunk was busy doing some muffled sobbing so it was okay, and the wrist wasn't broken, which was very surprising. All I simply did, was use a quiva from my belt to loosen the hinges a bit more, so our audience couldn't see, and the Warrior slipped his hand out with ease looking almost amazed at how simple it was done.

Being a healer was not just about helping, it was about assisting. Once his hand was free, a turned and looked to gathering and announced; "This man has won the wager! Which one of you owe him the four bosk who said he couldn't get free after dragging a slave around in a trunk with just his wrist around the whole string of wagons five times? Which one? Pay up!" With that most had taken off running not wishing to be tagged the loser of a wager and to spread the story of the man strong enough to do such a thing. I took a seat on the trunk, after all had left, I used the tip of the quiva to tighten the hinges once more. It seems I made a friend. Torrick of the Sleen trainers. Getting him a wrist wrap of stiff leather and a promise of favoring it for a couple hands, as from the pulling and twisting, he was lucky it wasn't broken, but it was sprained and with the struggle no doubt a few tendons were torn. My payment? He offered me a sleen pup. Which was perfect timing as I have noticed Vern was slowing down and rarely left the shadows of my steps these days. He had lost his eye sight many seasons ago, but had lived longer then any sleen I know. I needed a young tracking sleen to train. I looked over those bred with a good nose, slender form, and strong legs. I like my sleen smaller to get through places larger herd and battle sleen couldn't due to muscle and bulk. I favored runts. I also favored lighter sleen, as those were not so ready in supply as for hunting, herds and raids dark was the most ideal. I took the light one and offered my services as payment for a second one. One of his breeding bitches had a blocked up milk gland. It was nothing some warm compresses and manual manipulation wouldn't fix, but when its sore and its a sleen, dangerous work.

That evening I took the darker pup, Kado, back to my wagons, putting him in a cage, fed by my hand and talked to him a bit before I took the lighter pup, Seeker, with me. She would be my tracker for the wounded, and lost. I needed her to work out some of that natural aggression, and possessive feelings. The best way to do that was to keep her at my side, and my command, but make sure she was around people, young and old. Tomorrow I would take Kado out in the herds with me, and leave Seeker with my girls. Seeker in hand, I went to the Ubar's fires finally, after a long day of being distracted, by the wrath of angry mates, blocked up sleen, a broken toe, three sets of stitches and checking on a young child who was born fighting for air due to weak lungs, I would get to sit, and perhaps enjoy some conversation.

)(

I have met a few on a more personal level then causal passing by at the Ubar's fires. Spending a few ahns there to get to learn the layout of the fires, wagons, supplies, clan fires of the Ubar's wagons. There are main wagons and of course a form of extensions of the main clan wagons throughout the tribe. We are to vast to travel to one central place everyday. I think for those of my clan, we are a bit more flexible. We tend to walk the rows of wagon alleys to see those who need such assistance. Those of my clan, after many years of practicing have healing wagons by our personal wagons fully equipped for those we need to watch closely. I have two, only because I have inherited my Father's healer wagon upon his death. I used his for those that needed extended stay, and my own for those coming over for minor bone setting and stitches.

I walk back to my wagons in the evening. I have my girl Tori know to come get me if something is urgently needed. I know I am not the only healer of the outer wagons, but I do have my regulars and those I do feel pride in knowing I am their preference. Tori knows to make the rounds every morning to take teas to those who have weak knees in the morning to ease the pain. She can tell me information I need by doing it personally then sending them home with packets to make themselves. One, its rare a Warrior will take to tea, even I struggle choking it down. She can tell me how their eyes look, finger nails, or if them are still favoring the weakened limb. Between tea drop off, and checking livestock who are in healing pens, she makes a mean cooked Tarsk. She has been a vital part of my life for many years. A rare thing to find a girl, that just perfectly fits in. She brought with her, knowledge, and has taught me also. She was a healer of dwellers in her younger years. Now my girl Tasha, is a divine example of hot slave slapped on fiery furs. She was a raided find. Dark skin which she told me was common from the dweller land of Schendi she came from. She was a merchant dealing in spices, which is a benefit to me also, as she knows combination of roots and leaves that help me and Tori work. I have to say, she is the better cook of the two, but after the last few dozen years, I tell them both I am still trying to decide.

Every other day I take to the herds in duty. I find myself wondering whose command at the Ubar's wagons I might come under. My own Commander, Junneau, has not given me a break in my seeking of the Ubar's wagon. I am pleased he hasn't. There has been times I have had to leave early for serious injuries from returning raiding parties, even for his own injuries from battle, Junneau still makes me make up the ahn's of my patrol. He is my Father's younger Brother. Him and my Father would fight on end over my sleepless days then take off drinking chasing after a couple girls in the dark, while I would be left having fallen asleep at the fires. Those were the good days. I missed them.

I had a lot on my mind walking from the fires to my wagons tonight. Its a long walk, but one to allow me to clear my mind and take in account of those around. Families, young, old. I chuckle at the Warrior that kept calling me young. I had not been young for a long time, though inside I felt that way. So I wasn't offended. I wondered how many of the Commanders that were younger then the scars on my face. It was a pride thing. Those to strive to be all they could for Tribe. I am proud of them.

I checked on Hannah, a young soon to be Mother whose Mate's wagons were near my own. She has been looking very pale, but she is carrying a large child. Her mate was a large Warrior, so much so I check on his kaiila every turn of the moon to make sure there was no arching in its back. She was in good spirits this evening, and this pleased me. I shared some warm milk with her and her younger sister who was living with them to help Hannah as both mothers were gone, and the Fathers were just waiting for the birth of a boy. I had to say, for the sake of Hannah to be able to rest after the birth, I was asking the Sky for a boy for her mate also. For he was asking me at our every passing...when he can expect her to get pregnant again after this one.

It wasn't so simple to just have a late warm drink with women at any wagon. They shoved food towards me, and acted fevered for conversation. Once I had eaten my fill of bosk, and her younger sister was done telling me what a prize mate I would be for any woman, I had to fake an urgent run to the trenches as the milk goes right through me, to get them to let me go. I waited by the shadow of my wagon watching the moons until I saw them walk into their wagon. Then I finally with dragged boots made it up my steps. I looked at my girls once I entered, both naked across my furs asleep. They were not asleep for long, and again, another good day ending.

)(

The worse wound I have ever seen was the one that had wedged its quiva in a twisted grind past the bones of the chest into the tender tissue of my Father's heart. With tears that would stream in silence if it had been rain we would have never seen a lifted hint of dust on dying earth, nor ever a piece of welted thirsting grass. As Son's me and my brother were able to bandage the wound, but never to remove that quiva that throbbed in the depths of his spirit. This is not to say, my Father wasn't the bravest, wisest, and most skilled Warrior I have ever seen. For he was. No other would take his place in the lifted heights of stars I kept him at in a son's worship to one day bring as much pride to him, as a son, as he did for me, as a Father.

Her name is Talia, and she was my Father's mate. Her ashes still warm on the ground the day I entered his life. I don't remember the story, only mere flashed hints in my mind when the quiet and calm is at this perfect state so it will show its hint of life like a mole in the ground peeking outside its tunnel. Those who created me, I remember only the shine of gold bracelets from her wrist, and the gems that were placed like simple beading upon his saddle bags. That is all. Nothing more for images but a tender voice like the most elegant of songs that sung my name in the evenings. One echo of deep pride that would swirl with that memory of sounds, telling me "Ongel, never leave a quiva behind. Never" as the best of advice that could be offered to young ears.

Father would tell me the story of how I came into his life like it was one of those moments that a man lives for, just to know he could die with that memory. It was told with almost as equal pride and devotion as his telling my Ragar, my eldest Sky brother's birth. Ragar remembers his mother well, he was just over eight years when I arrived the night after her pyre. They both tell the story like I was the greatest of finds, and this makes me feel...special. Wanted. A love that even crosses the eternal hold of blood.

I feel a hot trace of emotion stream down my cheek, as its the first time in the last year since my Father's death, have I felt alone. A man as old as myself lost in the shadow of his Father pridefully. We lost Ragar nearly thirty seasons ago. His children were grown, his woman mated again, though I am not blood, they always treated me as family. Never a doubt, and those who were to young knew no different. Perhaps its as my Father said, I grew comfortable in my life. I sought only to conquer the day, and no desire to dream of the future, I had no wishes for I could think of nothing else I wanted, but what I already had. I was happy, at peace, and serving my people on such different degree's I felt complete.

He wanted me to move towards the Ubar's fires for as many years as I can remember. It started after Ragar's death. He wanted to see I never was alone. I have taken a mate in the past, a lovely woman who died giving birth. She died before then, when the lack of movement told us, the Sky took back her babe, before birth. It was my first experience with trying to understand this wound I couldn't heal with my hands. My Brother's death with the second. Now the struggle at my Father's Death has proved to me, I needed to seek more, for I was killing myself staying in the same spot with so many pained memories. I needed to make them up, and we were going to relocate.

Ragar was my commander, many raids, and battles we fought side by side. With his death, I had folded my Mask, and kept it locked in a roll of leather with tools of mass destruction at the bottom of my trunk. No longer did I volunteer for jobs, and did them only rarely when called upon to do so. I feared my own skill as the art was more enjoyed as I felt I started to let the blood of those who deserved such pain, to bleed out my own until I was exhausted and even had to ask myself, what had I done? Information, lessons were taught but when they were telling me how they got the scar on their left toe at the tender age of six from a fishing accident, perhaps it was a bit much. I chuckle at that now, for I had found the balance with age. Even the need again, if ever called upon.

So many Ubar's have rolled their wagons to the front, in my life, we listen to the drums that coil from the center out, telling of his words at the strike of surface. Yes, I am ready to be more then a name whispered in the dark, for I doubt some knew my face in light. For Duty has no status when it comes to tribe. When one is called, there is only to obey. I do so, with a masked smile.