Aresti took a number of acolytes every few years. He could still go hunting, and he had his duties as chief, but there were in truth very little of those any longer. More and more, his tribe was absorbed into the general goings-on of the Central Camp. Still, he knew more about herbal medicine than most of the shamans, so he attracted many shamanic apprentices who wished for practical knowledge. And some who were like Kalare...

Some people considered him hopelessly practical for his preoccupation. Instead of pondering the great mysteries, he worked on ways to incorporate datura into medicine. Some even though it was profane to do so, but he couldn't agree. It was a potent painkiller; that was all.

As was so often the case, he sat close to the fire in his tent, watching his current brew boil its way to potency. He was trying to develop a poultice effective against the poison leaves some of the warriors had gotten into. Thus far, he'd found nothing that was more successful than a paste of chalk dust and willow water. Currently, he was working on a new kind of willow water, boiling the small twigs instead of the inner bark. It seemed to be remarkably potent against all kinds of infections, even the terrible rash... but surely he could find something even more useful? Maybe something related to the willow... other plants had similar, but milder, effects.

A noise outside drew him out of his thoughts, which focused not only on the cure he was preparing, but also on the political problem that perpetually troubled him. That was: how he could convince the Endikai to ally more closely with the Zerui, to train together--to join together. They would meet shortly for a shared Gathering, the first time in generations, but he had even greater (and impossible) ambitions. If they were to survive the next interloper attack, they had to meld into one Tribe again.

"Yes?" It sounded like Kalare. He looked up. "Come in. I'm making willow-water. You didn't step in that patch of poison leaves, did you?"