"Uh.... ?" Fara asked Azrâ, blushing at his crappy Adûnaic. He took a deep breath in, trying to remember the writing and speaking practice he'd done so long ago. "?" he gushed, knowing he'd got most of that disgustingly wrong.
Having found his way to the docks of what he thought was the Havens of Umbar, the young man was now sitting at the edge of the pier, his legs hanging over the side above the water. Hopeless. His situation was hopeless, unless he found a way to escape.
The Kadar ‘nUmbar would be the first place Zeyâd would come looking for him. The desert was not an option, not with what he had got left of the little supplies Arrâ had given him. Just enough so he had made it there. He couldn’t stay in the city either. Zeyâd could hire one hundred eyes to look for him out of the crowd and the boy doubted there was a place in Umbar where no one could see him. His only option was the sea, but…ah. He knew nothing of- what did they even call it? Flying on the water? Wandering through the sea?
Never before had he ventured so far from home. Huh. Home. Where ever that may be now that he had no idea where his tribe - his only family - were.
He lifted his head to regard the man, who - to Azrâ’s luck - spoke his language. More or less at least. It was not his dialect and the other was clearly struggling a bit, but it didn’t matter. The boy himself was terrible in Westron, which was the only foreign language he knew.
"" Truth to be told, the question itself was weird. Rarely did anyone tell from which part of the desert they came from, but rather to which tribe they belonged to. Then again perhaps he didn’t recognize him as a desert-dweller? "Azramûl. I’m Razanîri.>” Oh. Perhaps he should’ve thought that over. Was it wise to tell a stranger who he was? “”