Despite the uneasiness hanging on every side of the camp, Bozo could feel the comfort under his hood—made from an antelope hide—as he walked through the hordes of men that stood, facing the distance ahead. Their hands were clenching their weapons as though their life depended on them, and the torrential drop of sweat that came running down smeared their faces with a glare that almost gave Bozo a skin burn. Pathetic. Bozo thought as he held up his chest, walking through the open space which the surprised men had torn for him.
The heavens have parted ways with the golden glows of the beautiful morning and the heat of the maturing day was beginning to show its face. But for the ceremony—usually at night and once in a twelve moon cycle—Bozo has never left the comfort of his palace in broad d
