The three sat at its base, chipping, with fine detail, into the opawe, the wood of the tree. They chipped away at the wood with fine precision and delicate movements as the outline of a figure had almost completely been carved into the tree trunk. The figure was that of the old tribe chieftain, once a young traveller and storyteller, and now, as he moved ever closer to his finality, it was clear that for his feats as a young traveller, a tafunda, and as a chieftan that bought new ideas and progress within the opajiga, his body would forever be eternalized in wood. Already two holes had been gorged from the tree trunk. One hole, being of primary importance, was located where soon would be the chest and torso of the icon. Meant for the chuku. The other, perhaps significantly less important that the first, had been gorged into where soon would be the head. A hole that had been carved for the skull.

Above them, though not directly, the chieftan watched the carvers begin their immortalisation of him and drew a calm sigh. Within him, both joy and fear of his eventual death conflicted violently.

Truly his death was one event that he had looked forward to ever since his rebirth in the lands of Uyuusa. He had died before of course, or another younger self at least, but this death, although not much different to his previous one, would have him lose much more than just his name. His body, his name, his mind, as far as he knew, would all be left behind and he, the true him, would join something much greater. Or so was the belief.

However, fear still held him with strong force as he wondered for his future as a different part of the entity that was the life-force of every creature and plant.

He turned and rigidly walked back into his opaweke; meaning wooden hut. In actuality, the huts of the tribe, though containing many wooden tools and even being suspended from wood came not from the surrounding trees but instead were the shells of the giant, black, six-legged ugdoboichukuve that had been forced into the caverns under the rainforest's cliffs by the tribe's older generations.

The Chieftan's hut, or shell, as ke can be translated as either, had a cone-like shape, though it slanted slightly at the tip. Twists and spirals coloured the fading white shell and was a constant reminder that natural beauty could still often come from the ugliest and fiercest of creatures.

Additionally, it served as a reflection of its inhabitant.

As he walked, feeling again the now never-ending but slow constriction of his own skin, a common event for those that survive long enough in this world, he imagined himself younger and fished for memories of his dangerous youth. Back when he was identified by another name and was a new traveller beyond the comfortable borders of his home. He watched his followers hunt and communicate. Watched as they leapt into the air with astonishing height and clambered with urgency as they chased prey. He, despite being still comfortable with his aging, had a quiet grief as he watched them and wished that he could still do the same.

He listened to the calls, cries, squeels and squaks of the rainforest animals, wondering whether, in his body's death, or his complete reattachment to the life-force, he would still be able to hear them. If not, he was certain he would miss the endless noise of his homeland.

Strange it seemed to him though that though his body was dying and limitations had been cast upon him, never had he ever felt truly old. It was still he that wandered and discovered many other lands, cultures and atsami; others of his species. He who freed the Ukuturih from their titan leader, he who found new meaning to live. He who rescued the scarred infant that he now fathered along with his own actual son. Both of which lived within the chief's tribe.