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The area outside the hut was full of life. Figures danced around the giant fire in the center, amidst shouts and shrieks. At the edge of it, where they had let the flames die down, some women were roasting some form of meat. People were all around, banging on crudely shaped drums to which the dancers were moving. The shadows from the tall flames that danced along with them made it difficult for Prolur to tell what they looked like, but they all appeared to favor elaborate hair creations and intricate tattoos covering their bodies.
Those who didn’t partake in the dancing or seemingly had no other tasks stood in groups conversing or engaged in sports of one kind or another. Suddenly, the dancing sped up and the drumming increased in tempo. The dancers started flailing their arms in an erratic pattern, and they made high-pitched shrieks. Prolur took a step back as this image frightened him. This was not common practice amongst even the most liberal of Haugarians. He turned to go back inside the hut but was halted by a hand upon his shoulder and a voice, deep and melodic.
“Why not join us?” He slowly turned towards the direction of the sound and stepped away from the hand at the same time. “Do not worry. We will not harm you.”
It was the man from inside the hut. The man who had been at the bonfire as he arrived. Prolur found himself unable to speak or even move a single muscle at the frightening sight of the man standing before him. He had appeared tall when Prolur had first seen him but standing in front of him and having to look up at him was even more intimidating.
“You are, of course, hungry for real food,” the man continued and grabbed Prolur’s shoulder with a firm hand. He dared not resist as the towering man moved next to him and led him towards the group of women by the fire. There was a force in the man’s touch—something that guided him and calmed him at the same time. The power in it was so forceful that his body seemed to lose all power over himself. The women were, like the men, taller than the average Haugarian or Sauranian that Prolur had come across. They wore skirts of all sizes and tops that varied from long-sleeved to no more than a piece of leather covering their bosoms. Their hair creations were as elaborate as the ones the men wore, but they seemed to favor it long and braided. The ones by the fire, from what Prolur could tell, were mostly younger, and from time to time, a young man would approach one of them and try to pull her aside, only to be pushed aside amidst wild snickering. As Prolur and his guide came closer to them and were noticed, they quieted down. They would look at Prolur and giggle something that reminded him of his days as a young boy being teased by local girls.
The big man said a few words in the tongue that Prolur didn’t understand. The women began stirring the food, and before he knew it, he had a piece of meat in his hands and it smelled wonderful.
His guide let go of his shoulder, and he found that he could move of his own volition again. Without any words, he sank his teeth into the juicy meat.
It was as good as it smelled. He ate until every last morsel was gone and all that was left was a bone that he sucked dry. He recognized the flavor as wild deer, but there was something different as well—something tangy and sour. The tall man laughed, and the women soon followed, and it brought him back to reality. He noticed that he was covered in grease and juices from the meat. It had dribbled all over his beard and enveloped his hands. He could only imagine what he must have looked like while eating. Prolur looked up from the bone, eyes wide with embarrassment.
“Excuse me,” he said quietly. “I do not usually lose control, but it feels like many days since I last ate solid food, and this deer was something of the best I ever tasted.”
“Do not worry,” the big man’s voice boomed. “You need not be ashamed of your hunger.”
The man turned to the women and exchanged more words with them. They scrambled at his voice and soon produced a copper bowl filled with liquid from a cauldron that had hidden in the shadows. The tall man took the bowl in one hand and smiled at them. Then he turned to Prolur and said: “Come with me! Let us sit awhile.” He walked away, and Prolur felt an invisible tug that urged him to follow.
The man led him to a tree that seemed to have fallen down several years ago and had since acted as a bench for weary men to rest their feet. The man sat down and invited Prolur to do the same.
They sat in silence for a moment as the tall man drank the liquid from the bowl. In the awkwardness, Prolur realized that he was still holding the leftover bone from his meal. He tossed it behind him and stared at the wild figures dancing before him.
The silence was broken when the man moved to place his bowl on the ground and caused Prolur to jump with a start. “Do not worry,” the man said again, this time with a laugh. “We will not hurt you.”
“Thank you,” Prolur replied, somewhat ashamed of his behavior.
“My name is On,” the man said in a solemn voice, “and these are my people. We call ourselves Mya, but to your people, we are often known as Raman—bandits, rogues, or killers.” Somewhere in the back of his head, Prolur could recall hearing that name before. A people different from Sauranians, who plundered and killed travelers and were impossible to find or tame.
“Naturally, we are enemies to both Sauranians and Haugarians—people who are not of our blood and whom we call Dall. Invaders,” On continued.
“That is why you killed my companions?”
“Yes, it is as it always has been and always will be. It is our code—to kill those who would venture near our home. We kill soldiers without thought because they do the same to us.”
“You have always been at war with us?” Prolur asked as he once again panned across the glade. The Mya were a strong people. This was evident and would pose a great threat to the Haugarians.
“Our people were here before any other,” On said, “but the Sauranians learned to live with us after years of war. Haugarians want to put us under them like they have the Sauranians. Maybe one day they will let us live in our own ways and let us worship the gods we wish.”
Prolur knew that this dream never would come true. The Haugarian kingdom would never allow even the thought of a people in the land not adhering to its laws. Their army would massacre the Mya before anything like that would happen.
“Are you the only one of your people who can speak my language?” he inquired.
“I am. Chieftains learn to communicate in foreign tongues so that they may venture into Dall dwellings to trade goods—always in disguise and in secret, of course.” Suddenly, a Myan came running up to them and said something in an agitated voice. On listened with interest and great concentration. When the man was done, On had a stern look on his face. “I am afraid I must go,” he said in a voice that tried to hide some deep emotion but failed to do so. Prolur thought for a moment that he detected something that sounded like a quiver. “Feel free to walk around. My people will not understand your language, but they have been told to help you to the best of their ability.” With those words, On rose and followed the other man and disappeared into the night.
Prolur sat on the log for a while and studied the Myans in their dancing and carefree moment. He didn’t know and could impossibly tell how many of them there were, and he tried to think if he had ever seen their likeness before. He did know that a war against the Haugarians and their Sauranian mercenaries, who knew the area like the back of their hands, would spell doom. Soon the brave warriors with their, to him, simple life would probably be gone forever or in the least hidden so deep in these woods that they would be lost to all but themselves. He sighed and rose before walking back to the hut where they had tended to his wounds.