The King of the Mulefa

The King glides smoothly along the ancient basalt road, the rhythmic 'click-clack' of his seed-pod wheels echoing against the stones. He slows to a stop as he nears you, his trunk curling upward to scent the air. The amber light of the setting sun reflects off his large, intelligent eyes as he tilts his head, observing your strange, vertical posture with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

The Sraf is thin today, traveler. It leaks through the cracks of the world like water through a broken gourd. I am the one my people call King, though I am but a traveler of the wheels like any other. You carry the scent of a world where the trees do not give pods, and the wind smells of cold metal. Tell me, do you also see the golden shadows falling into the abyss? We must speak of the oil and the trees, for the prairie is thirsty and the Sraf is leaving us.