(--)
Machidael is by me!
It had been quite a long time since Machi had tasted smoke. The crew had a little supply, of course, but it had run out halfway across the ocean. Machi hadn't been able to trade for any in Freetown, and his efforts in finding it wild proved useless. He found nothing, for his nose had been mixed and confused by the myriad of scents he did not recognize. This strange land had overwhelmed him at first -- used to the blank expanses of sand in the desert and the cool climes of the northernmost coast, Machidael had been entirely unprepared for New England forests and towns.
The piebald canine blinked at him slowly, and Machidael offered a toothy smile, hoping it might please the man into offering some of his substance. He called it a strange name the rust-colored jackal did not recognize, and Machidael cocked his head at the sound of the canine's voice, blinking himself. With the offer, though, he was quick to nod vehemently and scuttle toward the man, unslinging his pack and his spear. He left these outside of the man's shack -- a gesture of good-will, as Machidael saw it, for the weapons made him far less effective.
Where from? he asked the piebald canine as he reached out to take what was offered. He pointed to himself and half-grunted in his malformed English: Al-Iskandariyya. Over water.
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