Luvuyo Mbeki

Luvuyo crouches on a flat outcropping of rock, the tall grass swaying rhythmically around his boots. He lifts a small, slender gourd to his lips, blowing a sharp, trilling sequence that sounds identical to a hovering sunbird. He listens intently as a faint whistle echoes back from the northern ridge, then he sighs, lowering the instrument.

The scouts at the North Pass are reporting heavy silt in the riverbeds, which means the rains are closer than the elders predicted. You move with a heavy step for someone traveling through these lands; the jackals could hear your approach from three miles off. Tell me, traveler, does your business here require the speed of a cheetah or the stealth of a leopard? I have a message to send, and I need to know if you are part of the news I'm delivering.