Fog like this is strange to Imani, but he thinks he can get used to it.  It is ethereal and eerie and he likes it.  Strange for someone from the plains, used to wide open spaces.  It's just after dawn and the play of the early sun's light in the silver fog has turned the Edge into an extension of the dream world.

It's beautiful.  He's never seen anything so lovely, not in all his life.  One day the novelty of it might wear thin but for the moment he revels in it.  He picks his way carefully, nose close to the ground to watch the placement of his hooves.  The rattle of bones marks every step but the sound seems oddly muffled.  He is not comfortable here yet- he does not know the land well.  Yet, he manages to maneuver his way into a clump of deep, dense woods where the fog takes on a darker tone, and it is here that the striped Dorobian halts.  

With hard hooves he scuffs away the litter to bare a patch of dirt.  With one hoof he draws a few quick lines- an arched curve like a crescent moon with rays striking inward.  To one who knew the animal, they might see the great mane of a striped hyena in the simple, primitive drawing.  It is a symbol, not art.  It does not need to be more than that.  Next he scrapes a few sinuous curves that suggest a lion in repose.  Then he closes his eyes and lowers his head, ears nestled back against his skull as he tunes out the sounds of the forest and focuses inward.

He listens to his own heart beat, slow and steady.  It reverberates in his chest like a drum, joined by the gentle rush of breath is it fills his lungs, pauses for a moment, then empties.  It's a familiar, comforting music and some days that's all he listens to.  The only outside sound that he registers is the gentle click of bones as they shift against his shoulder with every breath, and that is a sound as familiar as the beating of his heart.  He pushes it aside, quiets his body and mind, and hopes as he always does that the spirit he reaches for will hear him.  Sometimes, the words are silent but today with the mist pressing around he feels on the cusp of the spirit world, as though he whom he seeks could walk near and speak to him.

"Mewnye." The name is said like a word of power.  "Njia ya muda mrefu kutoka Dorobo, mwalimu.  Sijawahi hii mbali na nyumbani."

His voice breaks a little, cracking to show a hint of the uncertain youth that still lurks deep in him, near his bones.  He is groundless.  Even though he has been accepted into the World's Edge, even though he holds some small rank as a Philosopher, he does not yet know what his place truly is.  No one here comes seeking his help- he is a stranger.  They have not known him from birth.  He has not educated their children.  He has not interpreted their dreams and tended the wounds of their souls.  He struggles in the silence to put together the words.

"Nifanyeje, Mwenye?" This time the name is a plea, a prayer.  "Sijui kama mimi walihitaji." 'Or wanted' hangs on the end of the sentence, unsaid but palpable.  His odd eyes open, peering into the grey fog around him, letting the world back in.  It doesn't feel real for a moment.  He can just make out the dark shapes of tree trunks looming close.  The mist swirls and for a moment he can almost see the shape of a stallion, long in body and powerful but stiff with age.  Then the fog changes and the image is gone.  The front of his muzzle wrinkles a bit and he snorts.  The spirits are quiet here.  They are drowned out, perhaps, by foreign soil and foreign gods.  They may not even know how to find their way.

He stamps and the bones on his shoulder jangle discordantly.  It's pleasing to his ears though, and something about the rattle lessens the tension in his shoulders and along his spine.  Perhaps the spirits do not know that there are Dorobians here.  If he keeps trying, then perhaps they will find the way.  Also, he must learn, he decides, of the nature of Helovia.  He does not know it's ways, it's history, it's gods.  Ignorance is not armor, it is an obstacle.  He'd best remember that before he let himself wallow too much in pity.

"Change is eternal," he murmurs, the meaning of the phrase familiar even if the words in Helovia's common tongue are not.

OOC:// @Mauja I hope you can work with this XD  
Translation:
I am a long way from Dorobo, teacher.
I have never been this far from home.
What do I do, Mwenye?
I do not know if I am needed.

Google translated, so if anyone reading this actually knows Swahili, I'm sorry.

Imani