It turned out that getting answers from Nyimara was nearly impossible. Rehoboam hadn't exactly expected her to be forthcoming, but he had at least hoped to gauge whether her enmity was aimed at the Lagoon or the Cove. Instead, he'd come away from their interaction not even entirely certain of the veracity of the answer's she provided. The silver-haired witch just seemed to be one of those mares whose words could be used to cut or caress, depending on which side of the blade you stood.
He had taken to keeping to himself for the most part, biding his time and trying to string together a plan of attack so that when an opportunity presented itself, he would be poised to take advantage. It would be nice to believe that the Lagoon would stick up for their own, but he doubted it. Orphiel was young, and had done an admirable thing by stepping in where the General or Boss should have, but the fact that he'd had to do so told Rehoboam all he needed to know about the Lagoon's feelings on the matter. He didn't know at this point if there would be anyone left to return to, or if he'd been consigned to a sandy grave of solitude.
But he had to try, for Celestine and Azizi's sake, if not for the children he'd so recklessly sired before he'd been stolen away from them. He had to keep believing that he would be freed before Celestine gave birth, so that he could take her away to somewhere safer than the Lagoon. Somewhere where men like Isik could not have access to her or their child.
Movement on the perimeter of the territory drew his eye and thoughts, and he watched in surprise as the vaguely familiar red form of Marcelline sauntered over the hills. They hadn't exactly parted on good terms, but she was no enemy either and he hadn't really expected to see her again. Nor, if he were honest, did he
particularly want to. There was something shameful in seeing someone again after your title had been forcibly stripped from you, but then again, his pride had little use in the Desert. Greeting a visitor before Nyimara might either give him clues to her purpose or, at the least, get under her skin just a little. He'd been a model prisoner so far, he might as well go out of his way to try and mix it up.
"Taking a Sunday stroll all by your lonesome?" He called out by way of greeting as he approached. Rehoboam had still not adjusted fully to life in the desert heat and the movement left him glistening in a fine sheen of sweat beneath the fall of his mane and along his chest. He didn't really consider himself familiar enough with Marcelline to share breath, but he offered it all the same, if only to communicate to Nyimara that this stranger was known to him.
Settling back, he tipped his head curiously and gestured to the land around him.
"What brings you to this marvelous sandy prison? Business or pleasure?"