All who would share in their bravery and their custom are welcome among the Mol. It has been some days since Cirina last held sight of Felih; she heard word of his appearance through one of the others, who had dispatched him already in the task of bringing home wayward sheep. She laughed, then, because she understands some great warriors from the Far West would be offended, but the ones she knows personally have always fallen to the needs of the tribe they befriended.

Now he brushes her tail with his and flattens the grass about him in his sprawl. Cirina's fingers tap the scales at the side of her neck over his question, and she smiles at her half-finished evening meal.

"Do your kind not dwell in permanent cities of such magnificence as to cover the very sky?" She has heard the stories; unwary merchants love and long to tell of their distant homes. "How do you find your way, without sight of Nhaama and Her stars to guide you? How do you learn anything of your people, hidden among thick walls of wood and stone?"

The Mol, the Xaela - they adapt.