Chichol always wore a frown.
His fellow tribesmen in the Moose Centaur Tribe often asked him what was troubling him.
He merely shook his head, took a sip of foamy wine, and said nothing.
There were some things that were pointless to tell them.
Several days had passed since his brother Scylla and four fellow tribesmen had left with the man named Ging, who claimed to be "a descendant of the East."
Chichol couldn't oppose his brother Scylla's decision, nor that of the Old Chieftain.
As long as these two most influential people in the tribe decided to make contact with a "human tribe," the vast majority of the Moose Centaurs wouldn't object.
But he remained deeply wary of Ging and the "humans" who would soon be arriving.
Whether it was the Old Chieftain or Scylla, both of them were far too trusting of "humans."
Other than East, we know almost nothing about them. Other than East, we've never spent much time with a "human."
Not all "humans" are like East, just as not all Moose Centaurs are warriors. There are cowards among us, too.
That's simply unavoidable.
Chichol took another sip of wine, saying nothing, his brows knitted like a rope as he stared at the tribe's massive grayish-white gate.
I have to keep a close eye on those "humans," Chichol thought. If they do anything that harms the tribe, I'll expose them!
That's my responsibility!
As he thought this, he suddenly heard his fellow tribesmen shouting from the stone towers on either side of the grayish-white gate. Their cries were mixed with excited clicking sounds made with their tongues.
What was going on?
Chichol looked up and saw the tribesmen guarding the entrance on the towers calling loudly to those below.
Then other tribesmen galloped toward the house