🍁Nine Ancient Obelisks

Even after eight hours in the saddle, when his face is gray from road dust and his legs feel like lead, Ushumgallu will still insist that it is far better than suffocating in a stagecoach or, even worse, rattling in a train. The hooves beat steadily on the road, a warm wind blows on his face, and a fresh, well-fed horse runs so easily and naturally, as blood flows through the veins, its hooves seemingly keeping the same rhythm as the rider's pulse. No annoying fellow travelers, no pointless conversations, except perhaps occasionally encountering other travelers: some will greet him with a gesture, others will spur their horse and give him a wide berth, mistaking him for a bandit, and still others, like Ushumgallu himself, will not acknowledge him with either a gesture or a glance. It is easier to think on the road; it's just a pity that there is no opportunity to get a diary. He hasn't even touched it for a whole year, but he should. Surely, Klin Chegver, who rose from a princess's valet to the ruler of the country, kept such a diary, and it is unlikely that Akkada Babbara, who so ineptly lost his life, did. Taking advantage of being on horseback, before returning the horse to the stables, Ushumgallu made a couple more circuits around Ninamiat, taking a closer look at the city. As if a great escape is not planned... however, he may have simply arrived earlier than the royal messengers. They probably stayed for the concert. First, the Calcite native heads to the administration – after such a journey, a couple of hours of sleep would be welcome.