As I wandered through the continent, I began to lose track of borders, of languages, of all things except the culture of whatever place in which I would turn up. The most outstanding interaction I had: I met a band of rapscallions, tan of skin, gentle of heart, and fiery of soul. During my short period travelling with them, they referred to me as “nefelibata.”
“What does it mean?” I implored the leader of the rogues.
“Nefelibata is the man who walks on clouds.”
“Uhh… we all walk on the ground.”
“No!” he snapped. Burning passion gleamed in his chestnut eyes. “It means you are the one who is not bound by the rules of this world. He who has forged his own path in mind, body, and spirit, he who has forsaken a common life to become uncommon, he whom, without a second thought, abandoned all the trappings and comforts of complacence to seek a higher realm of understanding, a higher level of truth, and a life that few could survive, let alone embrace… He is the one we call the cloud walker.”
The highest honor I have known came from a group of bandits, who did nothing more than call me as I am. Nefelibata, he who lives his dreams.