ᐱ ᖃ ᓐ ᓇ ᕆ ᔭ ᐅ ᔪ ᑦ ᓴ ᓇ ᔭ ᐅ ᓯ ᒪ ᓕ ᖅ ᑐ ᑦ ᐊ ᒻ ᒪ ᓗ ᐱ ᓕ ᕆ ᓯ ᒪ ᓕ ᖅ ᖢ ᑎ ᒃ

Smoking good leaf among compatriots, and showing silly southern men a little rowdy fun for the sake of a job.

Today has been a good day.

The people of the south are much more in harmony with the Great Spirits than the Grandfathers have ever taught me. It has been long since we have ventured so far south, though.

I laugh a little to remember how frantic these friends were, each a character their own. If all the south were as warm as them, perhaps it is worth venturing further. Maybe I have spent too long here, protesting my cause to uncomfortable ears.

ᓇ ᓄ ᖅ ᐅ ᑎ ᖅ ᑐ ᖅ ᑲ ᓐ ᓄ ᔭ ᕐ ᒥ ᑦ ᖁ ᖓ ᓐ ᓂ ᕐ ᒥ ᓪ ᓗ

The warmth of my campfire is familiar, and a smile remains on my face as I finish the business of setting the neglected traps which had been interrupted for this job. A rabbit was caught here, and starved - spared a quick death by my negligence. A frown tugs at my lips, and replaces my cheer.

A prayer is offered to the Spirit of the North, and apologies made to the Qupirruit with its burnt offering. I will go hungry tonight, and find my meat tommorow.

As the fire goes low, I am still warmed. Charlie, she said these Spirits play a game with us. A fun game indeed. I await the next hunt.

ᑲ ᑎ ᖅ ᓱ ᕐ ᓗ ᒋ ᑦ ᐱ ᖁ ᑎ ᒃ ᑲ ᐆ ᓪ ᓗ ᒋ ᓪ ᓗ ᑐ ᒥ ᒃ ᑲ

I am in front of the governement hall of Juneau. I have spent many days into weeks into months in this place. I first stood here years ago, and pleaded my cause to whomever would listen. Broken english brokered no understanding. Thus I improved. Distant sentiment brokered no empathy. There I stayed.

I sat on these steps, holding signs, engaging passersby, the men of this small station knew me well and did not disdain me. They did not acknowledge me, either.

I stand here once again, there is no sign in my hands. A woman walks down the steps, and as is typical, her eyes rove over me and through me.

She bumps into me and squeals.

She apologizes continuously, fluttering around her dropped papers, and quickly is stepping away with the click-clacking of her plastic heels.

Hmm.

I step through the revolving doors of the building. The clerk's eyes flicker up to me, and back down with disinterest. As always.

I weave around corners, stumble past chattering secretaries and representatives all too tired of a station in a too-little state - dreaming of their careers in the south. Past guards engaged in conversation, discussing drinks after work. I pad down the hallways and onto the legislative floor.

Few people mill about, whispering in murmurs of the affairs of state to be discussed today. I stand tall, and I could speak. Speak on the floor where men are heard, speak of the bleeding ice and dying seas. I realize, still, no one sees me.

And no one will hear me. The payment I was rendered, I feel it now. And I know that nothing has changed.

I turn around, and go back the way I came; back to my camp, back to sleep. I too, dreamt of the south. Dreamt of the porcelain spires I was invited into, knew in my bones that if my salvation was anywhere, it must come from there.

Now, I go east.