Also not sleeping at this time is a certain formerly black, but now white and spotty Khatta. The Savanites don't take in spongers (which is bad for Meow, since he is very proficient at that), so they have set the cat out to find some way he can earn his keep.

*GRUMPH* From somewhere ahead, through the thick underbrush, a grunting noise can be heard, along with the sounds of hooves scraping up dirt and matted vegetation, along with the occasional sound of something scraping against bark.

Although against his inner judgement, Meow has taken what he sees as the macho alternative, which is hunting.

Trying to be as stealthy as possible, Meow sneaks up to the sounds and looks through the growth. Hopefully, this is the prey that he and his party have been searching for.

The Khatta makes his way stealthily up to a wall of vegetation … but then the vine that he steps on to get a better look … moves. It writhes and thrashes about, and a loud shrieking noise emanates from an oversized fungus growth nestled in a fork of branches in a nearby sapling. (With the size of the trees here, that 'sapling' is about the size of a tree in its own right.)

*GRUMPH?*

Meow leaps back! ( Great, so much for surprise… )

With an angry squeal, something big and on the other side of the vegetation sounds as if it's charging this way … and beginning to rip its way through the undergrowth. This could get ugly… Meanwhile, the shrieking fungus is still keeping up its racket, while the "vines" continue to thrash about. A quick glance reveals that the vines radiate from this fungal growth … evidently a part of the same … well … WHATEVER it is.

The Khatta backs up even more, gritting his teeth and setting his ears back at the horrible noise. He hastily strings out his bull-roarer, or as the Savanites call it, a 'Really Bad Noise Maker', and attempts to swing it around his head. Hopefully, the others will hear…

*whuh whuh whoop whoop WHOOP WHOOP HOWWWWWWWWWWWWL!*

The noise-maker lives up to its name, making a truly horrendous howl guaranteed to send shivers down the spine of any "city slicker" who doesn't know any better. It also seems to have an effect on the creature crashing through the undergrowth…

*REEE REEE REEEEEE!*

There are more crashing noises as the creature, still unseen, struggles to extricate itself … and then tears off in the opposite direction. A glimpse can be seen in a gap in the foliage of the huge boar-like creature dashing away.

Fumbling clumsily for his wooden dagger, Meow shudders at the combined sounds of the bull-roarer, fungus, and what he presumes to be the charging forest hog. Wait a minute, it's charging the other way now! Taking a deep breath, the cat bolts off after the animal, still swinging his noise-maker.

It takes a bit of a detour around the vegetation to pursue the forest-hog, but Meow proves to be swift-footed and ready to the task. In FACT … as he dashes along, and the noises of crashing grow louder … it would SEEM that he's actually catching up on the beast! Breaking through some low-hanging vines (these of the non-animate type), Meow finds himself in a small clearing, where the forest-hog has run into a tall rusty trunk that sticks up from the ground.

(Forest-hogs, you see, aren't especially bright. It looks slightly dazed, but that'll wear off soon. They have thick skulls.)

Meow shakily gets his dagger to the ready, and gives the roarer a few final violent swings in the hopes that the rest of his hunting party will find and catch up with him. He then coils it back up quickly and circles the hog.

Some answering sounds of disturbance beyond the clearing – and some suspiciously out-of-season Creen calls (not that Meow would know that) – hint that the other hunters are closing in. But as the forest-hog turns to face Meow with its greatly oversized tusks – one with the tip chipped off at a jagged break – it looks like Meow may have a bit of work to take care of before they arrive.

*REEEEE! GRUMPH!* The forest-hog glares balefully at Meow, and scrapes up the ground, its back to the rusty, vine-entangled column.

The cat tries to get a grip on his shivering. The meanest thing he'd ever hunted for lunch was Lylia's Three Spice Stew (although the stew is pretty fierce in its own right). Taking a huge gulp, Meow darts forward at the beast, slashing at what he hopes is its side.

… well, then again there were those tentacle things in the sewer. But they weren't spicy, and unlike the hog, didn't have huge spearlike tusks…

The beast chooses to react to Meow's motion by charging forward, squealing angrily. However, Meow's reactions prove to be quick to the cause, and his primitive dagger finds its mark. As the two combatants pass each other, and the forest-hog stumbles through the rest of its charge, Meow can see that he has scored a crippling wound. Even if the forest-hog escapes this clearing, it won't last for long in the wild. However … the forest-hog seems to be not about to flee. It turns around, bracing for another charge.

Meow grimaces, and he thought walking down the stairs in the morning for breakfast was challenging! He crouches down again, readying himself for the next charge.

Time seems to be passing so slowly. Surely the others should be here by now. But there's no time to look for them. Meow, back to the rusty column, has an angry – and wounded – and desperate – forest-hog charging at him, letting out the most blood-curdling squeal that could be imagined to come from such an otherwise almost silly-looking beast. The sharp jagged tips on those tusks don't look terribly silly right now, though…

Meow sets his ears back in determination, and rushes forward again with a low slash, "MYAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Meow's swing is true … but his footing is not. He slips on a sticky spot on the grass – a spot where the forest-hog was just a moment ago when it received its grievous wound – and fails to get out of the forest-hog's way quite in time.

"MYAAAAA-EEK!"

Waves of pain sweep through Meow as he feels a horribly unpleasant sensation in his ribs, accompanied by some just as unpleasant sounds. And then he is consumed by the merciful blackness of unconsciousness…

How much time passes before that void loosens its grip? The answer does not present itself, but only the return of shards of pain lancing through the Khatta's body, and a numb feeling that fills his midsection. He is lying down, someplace cool, someplace dark, and his nose detects an unpleasant mixture of sweet incense intermingled with herbs and more familiar medicine.

Meow winces at the coming of the consciousness, but slowly opens his eyes. Is he dead? If he is, then the procession sure smells bad. Wait a minute, he's not dead… but where is he? He tries to sit up to take a look around.

Spears of pain shooting through Meow's body at the attempted movement serve to discourage such exploration of his surroundings, and he does not succeed in sitting up. Some moments later (did he pass out for a bit there?) he is able to discern his surroundings better. He is in a stone building, back in the City of Hands no doubt, being tended by an older Savanite in flowing robes. Here and there are candles and odd trinkets, and other signs that seem to suggest that some sort of ritual has taken place here, though Meow may know little of the particulars of such things.

Gritting his teeth, and ears set back, the Khatta looks wearily up at the Savanite. Having learned a little bit of that handsign stuff finally, he tries to at least lift his arms and sign. "Where I be?"

The Khatta is lying on a bedroll, his midsection wrapped in bandages. He is shirtless … but the covers have been drawn up to his neck, against the chill of the jungle night. A glass-less window reveals the fact that the morning has long passed. The elder Savanite looks down at the white spotted Khatta and signs, "In the City, Snow-Fur. You will live."

Snow-Fur… he's still trying to get used to that name that they gave him, since the people here don't seem to be big on Rephidim type names. His mind wanders back to the hunt, and his eyes open wide as he signs questions wildly. "Asleep how long? Others get pig-beast? Where they be?!"

The Savanite signs, "Thrash, Finger-Bone and Whisper-Foot are cleaning the hog. They arrived to witness your killing of the beast. You are to be congratulated for your bravery … and chastised for your brashness."

"That was this morning. You have rested all day," the healer continues, then takes a break to check the bandages again. As the healer moves the covers, it is evident that the Khatta's spots do not go to his chest as well … and the Savanite shows no surprise at this. (After all, whomever did the bandages would have had to have seen this before.)

Snow-Fur's eyes go wide, "I kill beast?!"

The healer, only following Snow-Fur's hand-motions out of the corner of his eye, nods silently.

The Khatta's mind swims, he had killed those tentacle things in the sewers before, but that was nothing compared to this! Speaking of this, Meow looks down at his chest with a look of shock. He himself is amazed that he's alive. Then he remembers the spots, or rather, where the spots aren't, and looks nervously at the healer.

( He must know… ) thinks the Khatta.

The healer smirks faintly. He is either very perceptive, or something else must have amused him, but he signs nothing, removing the bandages, revealing a wound on the right side of the Khatta's midsection … but one that looks as if it has been sewn and as if it has been healing for quite some time. The healer soaks a white cloth in a steaming pot over a low-burning fire, then proceeds to clean away the area.

There's not much to clean. But the touch of the cloth – and whatever it's soaked in – stings. The 'water' bubbles and fizzes right around the sewn wound.

Snow-Fur jerks a bit at the touch of the cloth, but tries not to fight it. Looking down at the wound doesn't help matters much, but to be honest he had expected it to be much larger than that. "What you do to me?"

The healer tends to his work for a bit before pausing to answer Snow-Fur. Such is one of the limitations of having to use one's hands to 'speak'. He finishes cleaning away the wound – with more stinging sensations – then applies fresh bandages. At last, satisfied, he draws the covers back over the Khatta, and signs, "The wound is not great. You have responded well to the treatments. You will be able to get up and about as well as ever on the new day. But the scar will remain."

The Khatta flares his nostrils, then sighs. The last thing he wanted was a huge scar on his side that makes him look like a former shish-kabob participant. ( Oh well, some females like scars… ) He then looks back at the healer, "You not wild person. From Rephidim?"

For 'Rephidim', the Khatta signs "Sky city," since there is no sign for the metropolis in the handsign vocabulary he has learned.

The elder Savanite smiles and shakes his head, signing, "I was born here, in the City of Hands."

Snow-Fur's brow furrows in confusion, "But you no dress like wild People, and I thought city abandoned? You too old to be born here!" He winces as the wild signing sends spears of pain through his side.

"I am Tears-of-Blood," the elderly Savanite signs. "I am of the Twelve-times-Twelve, servants of the last Priest-King." Now that he mentions his name … his tearmarks do have a faintly reddish tinge to them visible only when he turns so that the firelight illuminates his face more directly. "I have been in the City for a very long time."

"Priest-King?" Meow imitates the sign, not really understanding, "What that? And Twelve-times-Twelve? If you from city, then you be hundreds years old!"

The Savanite smiles faintly, signing, "Thousands. But most of that was hardly a life. I was frozen in stone, dimly aware of the outside world. I am no immortal. Now freed by Third-Vision, I shall continue to age, and a successor shall be needed to fill my place. There is so much work to be done."

Snow-Fur just stares, still a bit confused. He then works up the courage, and asks, "You know truth about me?"

The Savanite nods in response. "You need not fear. Third-Vision has instructed me to see to your health. You are a friend of her friend."

"Friend?" The Khatta puzzles, "Who friend? Third-Eye not like me much… " The Khatta's ears droop, ( It's not like she doesn't have good cause, though… )

The Savanite carefully pats Snow-Fur on the shoulder, then signs, "The story is well known, though only a few here know your true identity. Third-Vision has chosen to let you blend in as you choose. You have gotten a taste of what it means to be one of us."

Snow-Fur blinks at the older healer, "What you mean 'story is well known'?" The Khatta's heart sinks and his eyes go wide, "You not mean everyone know I not one of People, do you?"

The Savanite shakes his head. "My apologies. I meant the incident with the mirror, the sticky {sign unclear}, the {Naga?} statues, and Third-Eye's hair." His ears wiggle ever-so-faintly.

The white spotted cat sighs with relief, and relaxes. "Oh. She not happy about that at time. She still mad? Embarrassing it was. And who friend? I not know her well… "

"I know not the heart of Third-Vision. But embarrassing it is to her, I am certain," the healer signs with a frown. "Your mutual friend is the Redeemer of Shadows. The black flier. The one who saved you both from a fiery death."

Snow-Fur blinks, Zoltan? The last time he saw those two together, they were hardly friends. "I know black flier, but he not friend of Third-Eye, is he?"

The Savanite raises an eyebrow at Snow-Fur. "I sign that with all certainty."

Snow-Fur ponders over this. It has been a long time, perhaps things have changed? Speaking of Third-Eye, what was she doing in that get-up earlier. "Everyone seem to respect Third-Eye here, why? And what you all do here anyway?"

Tears-of-Blood signs, "The Redeemer of Shadows has kept a trust, not telling others of the secret of the City. That is good. But the time is coming for secrets to be put aside. So I may sign to you these things… " He gets up and goes over to a chair beside the fire, sitting down in it. His tail must be buried somewhere underneath all those robes.

Snow-Fur's gaze follows the cheetah, his face full of confusion.

Once he is comfortable, the Savanite elder signs, "Third-Vision is one of seven sisters, descendants of the last Priest-King – the ruler of the fallen {Savanite?} Empire. With the fall of the last Priest-King, we, the Twelve-Times-Twelve, sacrificed ourselves to perform a ritual to hold in the effects of a spell gone out of control. We were frozen in stone. The City was saved from destruction … but not the Empire. You are witness to how Savanites are naught but slaves in all of Sinai … save for here."

"You mean," the Khatta signs, "People not always slaves?"

The Savanite shakes his head. "Far from it. In the old Empire, we were the ones who ruled, and who had others as our slaves. Even upon awakening from stone, that was how I believed the order of things should be. My time with my kin who have been slaves has humbled my standing, but my comrades of the Twelve-Times-Twelve are not all of like mind."

Snow-Fur's tail twitches in thought, "What others want?" He thinks he already knows the answer to that question…

"Revenge and vindication," signs the healer, frowning.

Snow-Fur also frowns. Savanite empires, others as slaves, cheetah wizards… this is all news to him. "And Third-Eye, what she want?" The Khatta's paws tremble slightly.

"That," the healer signs, "remains to be seen."

Tears-of-Blood smiles to the Khatta. "However, do not be disheartened. I do not think she plans any vengeance against you."

The Khatta swallows hard. It might be good that she doesn't plan anything against him, but like Tears-of-Blood said, Jynx has gotten a taste of what its like to be a Savanite. And the taste of slavery is bitter.

The healer frowns, then makes slow, deliberate and careful signs. "I should note, though, that Third-Vision has a purpose for you. A slaver ship has been opera