No mortal voice can ever produce the full extent of one's sorrow.
— Gamas Tikin Runor
Rutejìmo's wail ran along the pitch-black dunes, but he no longer cared if anyone found him. Night or day, it didn't matter if they were allies or enemies. He couldn't stop the clawing that tore at his heart.
He had lost almost everyone in the last week: Byochína, Nifùni, his brother, Chimípu. Warriors of unknown clans had come to save him and died. He had seen the people he loved and strangers alike—slaughtered because of him, the weakest of the Shimusògo.
Even though it was night, he didn't stop walking. His feet shuffled in the sand, and he trudged up one dune and over the other. It was exhausting, but he didn't care, and he couldn't stop. He had no food, no water, no weapon. He had left everything behind besides the clothes on his body and the case over his shoulder.
His stomach rumbled and a high-pitched whine followed him everywhere he went. He managed to crush a few scorpions and some insects for food, but that was the extent of what he had eaten for days.
Rutejìmo inhaled and wailed again. His throat was raw, and it came out as a high-pitched keening. He wished he could call for others, to summon warriors to defend him. But, when he tried, there was nothing. No energy, no power, no need.
He was alone and terrified.
He couldn't stop anymore. He had to keep walking.