Imani understands spirits, but in his world spirits are not physical things that breed.  Not unless they are possessing some poor host.  That had always been one of the rumors that followed him, that his father (some stranger his mother had met away from the heard, Mwenye said) had been such a one.  

His thoughts stumble to a halt at her next words though.

Never before had he been presented with such an offer.  A place to stay?  Not just staying on sufference, allowed to tag along on the outskirts because he was useful.  He had never held illusions that his people had cared for him.  It was better to have an unlucky shaman than no shaman at all, they had though.  He supposed they had been wrong.  Still, Imani was not one to live alone.  A full year of travel, and he still didn't know how to deal with the isolation and solitude.

Before he could say anything, something rumbled in the ground.  The other stallion was massive and Imani met his eyes only briefly.  It was not fear that made him look away after noting the sudden tension that siezed the bulging muscles.  It was shame.  So his hopesfears were answered.  There were Dorobians here.  They would know, as others did not, what kind of creature he was.  He steps back from the golden stallion, lowering his head and turning it somewhat so he watches from his one yellow eye, the other turned away from both the strangers.  About to make his apologies and slip from the scene, despite the yearning, the kinship he feels towards one from his own home, he is instead frozen in place as the other begins to speak.  The accent of Dorobo still flavors the words and it is like music.  He can't bring himself to leave.  

The meaning of the words almost escapes him.  When he understands that this is a second offer, he lifts his head in a brief, startled jerk.  The bones in his mane clatter against eachother and rattle against his shoulder.  The gentle percussion against his skin is almost soothing.  

"You would invite one such as I into your home, Mfalme?  Plain's spirits may not recognize her kind but they certainly will recognize you."  Though the words are calm and even, there is a hint of a challenge in them.  His head dips slightly towards Syrena, and he speaks in their common tongue.  It would be rude to do otherwise, since he does not think she knows the plain's tongue.  It is not they who are strangers here, he realizes again.  He is the stranger here.  He has no purpose here, no role to play.  This is talk of spirits however.  He may be denied Dorobo, but he will never be denied his knowledge of it's spirit-workings.

OOC:
Mfalme = King
@Syrena @Tembovu
"Talk."

Imani