Dawali sat in quiet, sometimes approached by tribesmembers, sometimes left for moments of solitude. Some of these moments were spent studying the friends and family who feasted all around them, how they interacted with each other and the relations that were there, and obvious for most. It moved him to see his people (his people? Were they, or were they the people of this land? Perhaps it was vain to think of them as his own - was he not merely one of them, with the burden of leadership?) demonstrate their strength. For while a feast was "just" a moment of gathering that could allow one to forget their troubles for a moment, they proved by their mere presence, and their smiles, that they were part of something which one could be proud of. This was strength - there was strength as much in numbers as in the bond between the ones that made up numbers.
Some moments were filled with tones from his flute, and merry tunes flew from him where he sat cross-legged at the edge of the dancing ground. He would eat later, perhaps. For now, he simply enjoyed the rhythms of the drums and the fire, and the musky scent of burning tobacco. It strangely reminded him of the past and the present at once, and when he looked around himself he saw things as if in a haze, both clear and in a wonderful, wonderful dream.
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