Soon after the children had run off, others came for Aolo. All of them men of various ages, and they chased him. He ran, shouting at them that he was no threat, but they soon had him surrounded in a field. He was glad the harvest must already be in, because he knew how dear the crop was to field-tillers – even more dear than its actual value.<br/><br/>For the first time, he could study them. He thought they must be Sitters first, because they had good clothing and shoes and caps, but then he saw their hands and recognized them as field-tillers, Standers. They were built like himself, he realized, thin and hard. Their tools he knew – scythes and flails. The scythes were odd, Sun loved them, because they glinted in her rays. The blade was long and extremely thin, much more so than any tool he had ever seen. If the stone it was made from was so hard that it could be sharpened so thin, it was certainly harder than his spear-point and shaft. A fight was useless, Aolo concluded, and dropped his spear, raising his hands.<br/><br/>“Nevilo kamphar, vriunti…nevilo kamphar,” he repeated. He didn’t want fights. Another of the strangers arrived. He was different from the others. His head glinted in the same way the scythes did – but no, it was simply a cap. A slight rattle came from him as he strode across the harvested field. He was tall and meaty and strong, he must be a Sitter and an excellent hunter, too. He wore an odd sort of chemise – very, very colorful, red and yellow. His belt held more Sun-friend-stone and a long, straight blade, like a knife, but as long as Aolo’s leg. He spoke to Aolo, asking questions, but the language was different. He thought he recognized words here and there, but not enough to make sense of what the man was saying. It was funny how they stood in a circle, and had he not feared the men’s weapons, Aolo would have laughed. Instead, he smiled. “Vriunti – vriunti. Gast vilo.”<br/><br/>Two horses came next. A man with arms as thick as Aolo’s legs and a woman were sitting on them, and Aolo wondered how they made the horses do that. Horse was fickle, after all. The woman must be the Head’s favorite, or maybe the Head herself (as was possible in some clans). She was very young for that. She must be very friendly with the Gone Elders and sure of their protection, so colorful was her clothing. Or maybe she did not know that such things were best worn by old women because they attracted the Unspoken who could make her womb barren and her children die early.<br/><br/>Aolo extend his hands to his sides, palms towards her. The meaty man spoke to her for a while. “Wolakweti, Houpati! Frumiful como, gastan vilo.” He assumed she wouldn’t understand, but he had to speak the words nonetheless and smiled.