Meadowlark Prairie eighty-third

The piebald man strode alongside the others, carrying an impressive array of supplies, made easier by the cleverly designed pouches he had received from the Moon people during his last expedition. From one pouch wafted the savory scent of dried food, while another held a container of shimmering powder, and still others carried gifts for the leaders of the packs they were visiting. Draped loosely over his splotched back was a soft pelt he used as bedding; he had not lied when he told Senmut he would not be "camping like a ruffian."

Why he had been invited on this trip was still a mystery. Perhaps he was simply there to serve as eye candy for the Red Priest striding ahead of him. Not that he minded—it was his job, and after all, what was the point of living in a place where his beauty wasn't appreciated?

Machi’s ears twitched as he listened to the conversation budding around him, the rhythmic padding of his companions' paws, and the occasional chirp of distant birds. With an unknown presence in the group, he planned to keep his opinions to himself unless asked directly. As they walked, he took a moment to admire the landscape—the coarse sand eventually fading into yellowing grassland, and the sky painted in purple hues.