Msaka's trek across the savannah took longer than he would have liked, but the need for stealth was evident in light of the damage to Tarna and the surrounding farmlands and villages. Judging by the fact that many of those villages had been burned, but no signs of battle were to be seen, many of the semi-nomadic tribes of the plains had simply packed up and left for less dangerous climes; a few of them still held out, especially towards the northeastern stretch of that trackless wild where the beasts hadn't gathered in any great number. To the south, along the river, Msaka imagined that very few if any people dared to remain.

What he didn't expect was to discover that the jungle appeared to be largely untouched by their ravages, nor were they present in any great numbers. In fact, there was little sign of their presence in recent times, which could only mean that they'd been drawn to the west to take part in the attack on the city. That was certainly good news for his people, and no small relief in the face of his earlier concerns, but the news would be just as bad for the inhabitants of Tarna.

The small and curious crowd that turned out to welcome him home was a welcome sight, and their reassurance that no serious harm had been visited on his people eased his conscience still further. He would have preferred to linger and share in their kinship, but the knowledge that the shaman was waiting - and likely growing more impatient by the moment - eventually forced him to excuse himself and make his way to the same spot that he had occupied, seemingly a lifetime ago and as a different person, when last he had been summoned to a similar audience.

He alighted on the edge of the platform above within the span of a few breaths and retrieved the elemental from his pack with one hand while brushing aside the newly-wrought bead curtain that filled the doorway into the interior with the other. Standing in the entrance, he swept his gaze around the interior, finding much the same strange assortment of magical and ritual paraphernalia as had greeted him on his previous visit. A low, round table dominated the center of the room, and resting atop it were a number of tools and a short wooden drum, its wood and paint fashioned of local materials. The skin and stitching, however, were very familiar indeed: The former consisted of the heart's flesh, stretched across the upper frame, and anchored in place by the latter, a thin woven web of the triton's hair. Both ingredients had proven easy enough to transport home via magic; Msaka was uncertain where the much less cooperative elemental would fit into the design.

The shaman himself was seated on a fur rug on the opposite side of the table, wearing a look of infinite impatience... though something else seemed to shadow his expression in the already-shadowed room. Msaka caught himself before his long look turned into a genuine stare. "I have the elemental," he said, a little quietly, as he held up the waterskin. "What shall I do with it?"

"Give it to me," the shaman replied, and Msaka obeyed, stepping fully into the room and handing it over. The shaman held the waterskin in both hands and gently rocked it back and forth as he favored it with an appraising look. "It will do," he announced at last, and unstopped the container.

Msaka watched, somewhat uneasily, as the shaman began to pour the elemental out onto the drum's hard-won skin, partly due to the danger if the elemental got loose, and partly because he wasn't sure what would happen next. The fact that the shaman hadn't chased him out before working on the drum was unusual in itself - one of the secrets of the shaman's success was that he kept a good portion of his knowledge proprietary, ensuring that he could never be completely done without. The elemental, for its part, obeyed the shaman's silent imperative and seeped into the desiccated heart flesh, which grew moist and flexible as their essences merged, in a way that no ordinary water could have allowed for - certainly not without causing the flesh to rot away.

Finally, the shaman cast the empty waterskin aside and ran his hands over the drum, nodding in satisfaction. "It's done," he pronounced in an almost casual fashion, then fixed his gaze upon Msaka. "Sit down."

Msaka did so, taking his place across the table so that the two of them faced one another over the table and drum. "What does it do?" he asked, indicating the drum with a small wave of his hand. The question was put rather hesitantly, for while the asking might be justified given the lengths to which he'd gone to procure the materials from which it had been made, probing too deeply into the shaman's secrets was one of the more reliable ways to set off his rather short temper.

The shaman tapped his fingers together several times as if in deep thought as he scrutinized Msaka, his discerning eyes locking with Msaka's own as he replied with a gruff, "We can speak of that later. For now, you will tell me fully and truthfully everything that happened on your journey, from the moment you left the gates to the moment you returned to them." The tone of his voice added an unspoken, "Or else!", as did the strangely captivating glint in his eyes. A cold dread began to grow in the pit of Msaka's stomach as he felt the subtle pull of a spell upon his thoughts, and his breath caught in his throat. That idle hand-tapping and the piercing stare had hidden the casting of a geas, one which he dared not defy... yet some of what it would demand he say would surely condemn him in the eyes of his tribe... and especially in the eyes of the shaman.

He struggled mightily to keep the unease... no, fear... from showing in his eyes, even as he found himself unable to conceal it by looking away. The shaman's spell had well and truly trapped him, and he faced an agonizing moment of indecision as the shaman looked on with a calm but ever-narrowing gaze.

Msaka drew a shuddering breath and began to speak the true and complete recounting of his travels as the shaman had demanded, his voice both quiet and flat as he struggled to suppress the gut-wrenching nausea and trembling that threatened to build into panic at his forced confession. Far better, though, to do this and accept the likely punishment than to defy the geas and thereby make clear that he hadn't the honor to own up to whatever misdeeds he would clearly be trying to hide.

As he expected, the shaman's expression moved through a range of emotions, though it darkened steadily as the hours went by and more of what he would consider to be Msaka's transgressions came to light. By the time the story trailed off with his return, the shaman's frown had grown truly thunderous, and his body was filled with a tension akin to that of a volcano on the verge of an eruption. Despite the wrathful visage, Msaka still found himself unable to look away; perhaps it was the geas still at work, or perhaps it was simply his own attempt to salvage some dignity from the situation.

"So," the shaman said at last, his voice steely and cold. "You repeatedly delayed your task and broke our taboos for the convenience of outsiders, and if that wasn't enough, you set a sorcerer and his army against us in a way that the lion-men will blame our tribe for."

Msaka swallowed hard and half-choked out a tenuous, "Yes," the trembling having grown too strong to entirely hide.

"You know what our laws will demand for this," the shaman uttered in that same frighteningly controlled tone.

Another quavering and very quiet, "Yes," was all that Msaka could manage. He knew very well how severe his tribe's justice could be, especially in the matter of revealing even a hint of any of its magical secrets to outsiders. If they were merciful, it would be quick. If not... they could be quite creative when the occasion called for it.

The shaman's harsh glare held him frozen for several moments longer. Then, with almost dizzying abruptness that left Msaka open-mouthed, the shaman's visage crumbled from seething to sedate as he let out a long-suffering sigh and asked with world-weary wryness, "Are you sure you aren't related to Johari?"