Had he begun to trouble Fakir? Mesut still wondered if it was worth it, the bathing, the feeding, every helping hand would've seemed like an inevitable truth days ago, but now it perplexed him. He moved and let the horse prop him up into the wagon, almost as if he remembered the fright he gave him when he jumped out himself. Mesut felt capable of moving on his own now, at least when the destination excited him, but took the aide with passive silence. As Fakir rigged himself to the wagon and they began to move, he smoothed hands over the braid he'd pulled over his shoulder, the new grooves where the hair weaved and dissappeared under eachother was a delight on the fingers, of which he was careful not to stick his claws into.<br/><br/>Mesut had answered with "Sofya," a name close to him. he knew few names, his own, those of the other nagas, his priests, the cook, their city. It was harder to conjure up other friendly settlements, though he knew they existed. Quickly before the attention was gone he followed with "I can hear the sea from my home." Hopefully it would be of some help, he had no choice but to trust Fakir's navigational skills.<br/><br/>For the most part, he just decided to sulk in the back of the wagon, covered and coiled up like a sad child. He swore that for awhile he must've taken an accidental map, resting his eyes after long minutes of watching the road move behind them. He felt strangely comfortable for being in an old wagon, surrounded by bolts of fabric and boxes, with a clean body and some time to sun dry. It was hard to stop thinking about the state of his temple, what it would look like, if it would be there, and likely he would never truly stop wondering until he saw with his own eyes what fate had to offer him. Better thoughts had him arriving home, the open arms of his chosen acolyte stretched to bring him down into a marble pool, the other nagas making a curious fuss. Perhaps he would only eat fish that night, for the pens that kept animals were being rebuilt after the attack, and that had been the worst of it.<br/><br/>Something in the distance jarred him from his thoughts though, something more subtle than the sound of wheels against dirt and the steady thud of hooves, the occasional rustling of the wagon's contents. It took awhile to discern, but drove Mesut to pull himself up into the drivers seat, hoping to get better sight and sound. He heard-- or he thought he heard, felt it in his bones, that it was water, crisp as it ran over the underbrush of the woods nearby. With an uncharacteristic bound of excitement, he called out expectantly. "Can we go see the water? Fakir, I want to go to it." His eyes were alit and hopeful, again he pulled himself up onto the horse's back, hastily stretching claws to curl around his human half as if he couldn't wait for Fakir to halt on his own. Once they came to a stop, he dropped off, pushing his own weight forward until he was off the road and disappearing down the slope, letting gravity aide him.<br/><br/>It was beautiful! And lacked the stench of the stagnant well with it's cold, mossy stones. The water cascaded over shallow cliffs and seemed to stretch wide across, it's middle running deep. He uncoiled himself to lie down and crawl over to the water's edge, torso pressed against the cool silt of the riverbed as he stared at the tiny, tiny fish that seemed to swarm it's sides. Were these little things safe? They must be, for being so small, Mesut had never heard of a dangerous fish before, even the massive ones carried into the temple on long wires. Curiously, he pressed a hand in the middle of their path, watching them swarm before returning to softly peck at his fingers, an odd sensation, but not so new and frightening that it made him recoil, instead content to watch. It was as if he entirely forgot about Fakir now, not having looked back since.