Satina Is startled bit Zahara's sudden warning. She wondered if the bird had told her? "What do we do? Keep moving and hope to run past its path?" She is already ready to go.
Having a little experience traveling in the wilderness, she takes a look westward, trying to decipher the signs of weather herself. (Survival: 15)
"Strange that mirage of a city was westerly as well," see adds.
Zephirah’s silver eyes widen, and she presses a hand to her temple as though the enormity of what Zahara says sinks in too fast. “How little is ‘little time’?” she demands, her tone sharper than intended. Her mind darts to the rugged slopes on the map—mountains somewhere to the south. “If we push the camels harder, can we make it to those outcrops before this khamsin barrels down on us?” She glances anxiously between Satina and Zahara, a flicker of discomfort betraying her usual composure. “Storms are gentler against solid rock, or at least…less murderous. Otherwise,” her voice dips, “we’ll have to double back east—and I do not fancy losing all the ground we’ve covered.” Her gaze settles on the horizon, uncertain but resolute. “I know storms. They’ll swallow us whole if we gamble wrong.”
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Sorry, I'm beginning to enter a vacation period and while I will try to check-in at least daily, I cannot promise that I will always be able to do so. From September 1, I should be back to normal.
Zahara’s breath steadies as she holds the falcon upon her wrist. She watches it, her gaze filled with respect, almost reverence. This was no trained beast, no pet bound by jesses and duty. It was a wild thing, free and untamed, an envoy of the endless heavens. It had no reason to mislead her.
Yet its words now contradicted those it had spoken before.
"The sky watches, Mistress, but does not weep. Walk on, or be buried where you stand."
She had taken the warning as absolute—a call to flee, to seek shelter before the storm devoured them. But now…
"The great wind veers from our path here. We are far enough away."
Her mind turns the words over, weighing their meaning. The khamsin would not reach them here. That much, the falcon knew as fact. It had felt the shifting currents of the air, had seen the storm’s path from a vantage none of them could share. And yet before, it had spoken of burial. Not in the storm’s wrath, then… but in something else.
Her amber eyes drift to the city before them—gleaming domes, impossibly white towers, banners that should not move in the still air. An illusion, Thoth had called it.
"But even illusions cast shadows… and some are more than tricks of the light."
The falcon would not speak in riddles for the sake of it. If the storm turned aside, then the threat must lie elsewhere. In the very place they sought to step into.
She exhales softly and shifts her wrist, allowing the falcon to settle, the warmth of its body stark against her sun-kissed skin. When she speaks, her voice is quiet, measured, but full of respect.
“Great Hunter of the Sky, you say the wind veers from us here, yet before, you warned me to walk on, or be buried.”Her brow furrows slightly. “What has changed?”
A pause. A flicker of thought in the depths of her gaze.
“Is it this place?” she murmurs, glancing at the city once more before turning back to the falcon. “Does it hold the storm at bay?”
Her fingers twitch slightly against her staff as the thought deepens, settling into something heavier.
"If the shadow does not come, then is danger from the one who made false city?"
She does not yet know if the falcon will answer, but she holds its gaze for a moment longer before turning sharply toward the others, her voice carrying across the sand.
“The storm will not touch us here.” There is no relief in her tone, only wary certainty.
Her gaze sweeps across Zephirah, Satina, and the others, lingering on their uncertain expressions.
“But we are still at risk.”
Zahara turns back to the group, her expression thoughtful but urgent.
“The falcon speaks in simple truths. It does not understand things as we do—only what it sees, what it knows. I am trying to understand whether the true danger is the storm… or the one who made this illusion.”
Her gaze sweeps across her companions, lingering on Zephirah. “If the storm will not bury us here, then something else might. I need to ask the right questions.”
Zahara: “Great Hunter of the Sky, you say the wind veers from us here, yet before, you warned me to walk on, or be buried.” Her brow furrows slightly. “What has changed?” "If the shadow does not come, then is danger from the one who made false city?"
Zahara:
The falcon replies: “While one great wind passes, another may come. They always do. Those ground-beings that wish to live do not remain in one place for long. The false city…” the falcon falters, unsure. “...I do not know.”
Satina looks a little agitated sitting atop her camel. "Zahara, are you saying now there is not a khamsin? I must admit, I am not seeing any signs of that." She is a bit confused about whether the woman is talking to the group or herself or the bird. "We should just move on and leave this apparition behind. You can talk to your bird as we go. You are just confusing yourself."
She isn't about to leave without the others, but she does urge her camel to move along a little bit, clearly ready to get moving.
Zahara reaches into her pack with slow, deliberate movements, retrieving a strip of dried meat. She holds it out to the falcon, offering it with a quiet reverence. “A gift, Great Hunter, for your wisdom.” The falcon’s sharp eyes lock onto the morsel, and with precise, practiced movements, it takes the offering from her fingers.
As the raptor feeds, something clicks in Zahara’s mind. Food. Water. Sky.The falcon’s world is simple—survival in its purest form. It does not speak in hyperbole, only in what it knows.
Her fingers tighten slightly beneath the falcon’s grip. Then I must ask simply. She raises her gaze to the keen, piercing eyes of the bird. “Where is the danger?”
Satina’s voice cuts through the desert air.
Zahara turns to find the warrior atop her camel, impatience evident in her posture, in the way she urges her mount forward. Satina is not wrong to be frustrated—inaction is a kind of death in itself. But Zahara knows rushing forward without understanding may lead them into a different kind of grave.
She meets Satina’s gaze with a calm, measured tone, laced with the respect the warrior deserves. “I understand your frustration, Satina. Action is your way, and to stand still feels like waiting for death. But if we move too quickly in the wrong direction, we may be walking toward it instead.”
She gestures to the falcon. “It speaks only of what it knows—danger, safety, survival. I am trying to see through its eyes. A storm may not bury us here, but that does not mean we are safe. The one who cast this illusion… they remain unknown. That is the danger I seek to understand.”
Her expression is steady, but there is an underlying urgency in her voice. “Give me a moment more. If we must move, let us move knowing what we step into.”
Even though the falcon has descended to converse and the alluring sight and scent of the apparently illusory city confronts them all, the she-elf is no longer looking at either one, gazing up instead as she often does at the wide blue sky, painful in its piercing starkness. No khamsin comes. Not yet.
Never richly musical and confident like Zephirah's, nor bluntly direct like Satina's, nor measured like Zahara's, nor scholarly like Thoth's, Ophelia's voice quavers as it often does, singsong and childlike, murmuring as if to someone only she can perceive.
"Of swirling storm no earthly trace, Or should it rage, then not this place, Or be it here, then another time.
Yet should it strike some other hour, Flesh from bone our souls to scour, Leaving naught but a whispering rhyme."
To the extent she is even aware enough to be paying attention to the her companions, Ophelia merely waits for them to decide what to do.
Nephthys didn't quite understand what kept the group from moving on now. As far as she could tell there was no indication that there was more danger ahead than anywhere else and while they may not be in any immediate hurry they should still keep moving when they could. "With respect Zahara, is it possible that you are overthinking this. Could it not simply be that the bird warned us from staying here or moving to meet our demise at that mirage. There has been no warning about simply moving on has there?" She finally asks, her tone laced with a hint of impatience now.
From the skies the tiny blue sphinx descends once more, calling out to the group. "I suggest you keep moving, you don't want to stay here longer than necessary, it is not a question of if a khamsin will come through here but when." He points out as a matter-of-factly before taking to the skies again.
Zahara stands still, her gaze fixed on the horizon, where the illusion of the city wavers in the heat. She listens—not just for the falcon’s response, but to the shifting air, the restlessness in the group. The unknown gnaws at them, fraying their patience. It is not the storm they fear now, but the absence of it.
She had asked the falcon the simplest question: Where is the danger? But the great hunter has not yet answered.
She exhales slowly, weighing the silence between the falcon’s last words and the unease rising among her companions. Waiting for an answer is wisdom. But waiting too long may cost them.
Her gaze flickers toward Zephirah. The outcrops. The suggestion is a sound one—shelter, structure, a way to lessen their exposure to whatever unseen threat lingers.
Zahara lifts her chin, speaking with measured calm. "The khamsin does not hunt us. But something does." Her eyes pass over each of them, lingering on Satina’s restrained impatience, Nephthys’ practical skepticism, the quiet weight of Ophelia’s musings. "The sands teach patience, but they do not demand stillness. We must move—but not blindly."
She shifts, her attention returning to the falcon. "Great Hunter, you say the storm passes, but another may come. You say the living do not remain in one place for long." Her voice, though soft, carries a quiet insistence. "Tell me then—where is the danger?"
Even as she awaits the answer, she nods to Zephirah. "The outcrops may give us the shelter we lack here. If we must move, let it be toward something that will hold against what we do not yet see."
Her gaze flickers toward the false city, its golden haze shimmering like a dream against the desert expanse. The falcon’s uncertainty troubles her. It knows the sky, the shifting dunes, the dangers that hunt in the open. But of this? Nothing. That means it is not of the desert. It is not real.
She speaks again, quieter, but no less firm. "I would not step toward the city. The falcon knows nothing of it, yet it is placed in our path—meant for us, by hands unseen. A test, a trap, or a lure for the weak-willed. Our very quest is built upon the weight of temptation. Why would this be any different?"
Her expression hardens slightly as she looks toward Satina, understanding her impatience. Action is life. Hesitation is death. But not all movement is forward. "I hear your urgency, Satina. But speed is not wisdom. The wrong step does not bring us closer to safety—it delivers us to those who wait unseen. Let us not give them what they seek."
"I am sorry Zahara but what you say make less and less sense. No one has suggested we should step towards the city and it is not in our path. Yes, it might well had been something to lure us away from our path and yes, we can't rule out that something hunts us but we are not blind, we found out that the city was a mirage didn't we, and Thoth is still our eyes in the sky, he will spot anyone hunting us."Nephthys says, clearly losing patience now, and now she simply starts walking on the path they were going, not towards the mirage but towards their destination.
Satina continues to move along. "Enough," she says. "Let's move on. Of course there is danger, but we cannot be paralyzed by conjecture. Hopefully our wits will be enough to help us. Your bird can tell you its cryptic thoughts while we move." She doesn't stop this time to see if others follow, she simply goes.
The shifting sands of conversation erode into blunt impatience. Zahara watches as Nephthys pushes forward, her frustration clear, and Satina follows without hesitation. Their words are sharp, decisive—unyielding as stone beneath the desert sun.
A breath. A moment.
She does not meet them with argument. The desert does not shout over the wind—it lets the storm pass, reshaping itself in silence.
Still, she does not stand motionless. The sands teach patience, but they do not demand stillness. She moves, steps deliberate as ever, her path aligning with the others—but not conceding to their pace.
As she walks, her voice reaches them, unhurried but firm. "I do not speak to stop us. I speak to temper us."
Her eyes settle on Nephthys for a moment. "The mirage was seen, yes. But recognition does not undo intent. It was placed where we might see it, might wonder, might question. You are right—we did not step toward it. But why place a snare if no prey lingers near?"
Her gaze shifts to Satina’s retreating form, unreadable but unwavering. "We move. But we do not move thoughtlessly. To call caution paralysis is to mistake wisdom for fear. Our wits will serve us—but only if we use them before we must fight for them."
Then, softer, as she lifts her gaze once more to the endless sky, her steps carrying her forward: "Let us see if the sand shifts beneath us—or if something else does first."
The young dark-haired woman sighs and stops briefly, turning to respond. "I feel that we're not going forward in this discussion either. We don't know that this was a mirage created by magic. If it was I agree it might have been placed there for us, to lure us off our path, but that does still not necessarily mean that someone is waiting for us in our path right now, in fact it would be more likely they waited by that mirage. And even if there is someone waiting ahead, and I agree there might be at some point, what do you hope to achieve by waiting here. It was a neat trick to be able to consult that bird but you have a tendency to overcomplicate your thoughts as well as your words Zahara, I'm sorry but you do. As far as I can tell the bird simply warned us that another khamsin might get us if we linger here and that we'd better move on, no deeper mystery to it than that. As Satina said, please keep asking the bird questions but there is simply no reason you can't do that while we're moving. We can go on discussing this if you want when we move, I don't mind talking mind you, but when arguing you need to take a step forward sometimes or it gets a bit tedious you know." She says with a tired look, then turning to follow Satina again.
Zahara does not sigh. The desert does not bemoan the wind for shifting its dunes—it simply moves with it.
She studies the young woman as she speaks, not interrupting, not rushing to defend. There is truth in her words, but impatience laces them, like a traveler weary of a long journey yet blind to the path ahead. When the woman turns to follow Satina once more, Zahara finally responds, her voice measured, quiet, but firm.
"You mistake my stillness for hesitation, and my words for delay. I do not argue for the sake of arguing—I listen, I weigh, and I speak when it must be spoken."
She steps forward, her pace unhurried but unwavering, catching the woman's gaze for a brief moment. "You say you do not mind talking, yet you tire of what is said. Perhaps because you seek answers, while I seek understanding."
Her gaze drifts to the mirage one last time before turning ahead once more. "The illusion was not simply placed to lure us away, but to make us doubt the path before us. You say it would make more sense for a hunter to wait there. That is what they expect you to think. So tell me, if you laid a snare and it failed, would you not set another just ahead?"
She walks then, not apart from the others, but not chasing them either. "I am not blind to movement, nor am I deaf to urgency. We walk, and I will continue to listen—to the falcon, to the wind, to the shifting of the sands. Not because I doubt the need to move, but because I would rather step carefully now than run blindly into something worse."
The falcon replies: “The great winds are dangerous, yes. Also on the ground there are dangers. Other creatures that walk on legs, like you. Other creatures that crawl on four legs.”
Seemily concluded sharing its knowledge, the falcon takes flight once more.
Menkaure’s map leads you southwest, toward the western edge of the Pillars of the Sun. They are a vast mountain range rising dramatically from the arid expanse of the Osirion desert.
Jagged peaks, weathered by time, stretch across the horizon, their rugged surfaces painted in hues of deep red, ochre, and dusty brown. Sunlight casts long shadows over the rocky terrain, emphasizing the craggy cliffs and deep ravines carved by centuries of erosion.
More hours pass. The landmarks become sparse—a jagged rock jutting like a broken tooth, the bones of a long-dead beast half-buried in the sand, an abandoned firepit filled with charred remains. The shadows lengthen, and the desert's true nature begins to show itself. The heat is no longer the enemy; it is the cold that creeps in, setting deep into your bones. The sky darkens to a deep, endless indigo, and the first stars begin to emerge, brighter and sharper than in the city.
Eto is now a memory, lost beyond the dunes. Ahead, the desert stretches, vast and merciless, daring you to take one step further into its ancient, unknowable depths.
Osirion | The Parched Dunes
Expedition Day 2
Supplies: 14
You set out again the next morning. At the base of a rocky cliff, you come upon the ruins of an old watchtower. It clings to the edge of a jagged bluff, battered by time and the relentless desert winds. Once a proud sentinel over the arid expanse, it now stands as a crumbling husk, its weathered stones bleached by the unforgiving sun. The remnants of its walls, pockmarked and eroded, rise unevenly, their edges jagged like broken teeth. At the tower’s base, the ground is littered with shattered masonry and sunbaked debris. A path on the eastern side provides easy access up the hill.
The tiny blue sphinx comes down from the skies and lands on his students shoulder. "You can go on. I will take a closer look at that tower and catch up."He says plainly. Nephthys simply nods and weaves her divine magic to hide the sphinx from sight before he flies off to investigate the watchtower.
Satina watches as Thoth goes up to investigate the tower. "I see no reason to stop here, but such a watchtower could prove a good location to spy on us if any are out here looking for travelers. It's good that Thoth is checking it out."
She had traveled most of the rest of the previous day in relative silence. In her mind, it seemed clear that whatever warnings Zahara had thought she had gained were fruitless. By the time they stopped to rest she had put those thoughts out of mind for the most part. She eagerly helped everyone set up the tents and enjoyed a bit of a meal with them all.
Zephirah glances over the crumbling watchtower, a faint shrug ghosting her shoulders as Thoth disappears against the sun-bleached stone. She does not envy the sphinx his solo reconnaissance—if anything lurks within, it doubtless appreciates the shelter and secrecy he hopes to uncover. But she merely arches a brow and says no more. They’ve chosen a measured pace for good reason: each stop costs time and resources, and their real prize lies deeper west among dunes that show no mercy to wanderers with empty flasks. She catches herself smiling, though, as she recalls how last night’s perfect canopy of stars revived her awe for the desert’s stark beauty; the play of moonlight on sand and the crisp hush of midnight wind had softened her usual city-bred yearning for easy luxuries. Even so, she sees no sense in getting sidetracked by every relic of past centuries. “He’ll be fine,” she murmurs at last, fingers idly brushing the camel’s bridle and urging to resume their slow pace. “We should keep moving—let the professor handle that pile of rubble. We’ve bigger mysteries awaiting us, and our rations won’t last forever.”
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Sorry, I'm beginning to enter a vacation period and while I will try to check-in at least daily, I cannot promise that I will always be able to do so. From September 1, I should be back to normal.
Satina Is startled bit Zahara's sudden warning. She wondered if the bird had told her? "What do we do? Keep moving and hope to run past its path?" She is already ready to go.
Having a little experience traveling in the wilderness, she takes a look westward, trying to decipher the signs of weather herself. (Survival: 15)
"Strange that mirage of a city was westerly as well," see adds.
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Liivi Orav, Barbarian || Vanizi, Warlock || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi || Neital Rhessil, Wizard
Iromae Quinaea, Cleric || Roxana Raincrest, Rogue || Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer
Zephirah’s silver eyes widen, and she presses a hand to her temple as though the enormity of what Zahara says sinks in too fast. “How little is ‘little time’?” she demands, her tone sharper than intended. Her mind darts to the rugged slopes on the map—mountains somewhere to the south. “If we push the camels harder, can we make it to those outcrops before this khamsin barrels down on us?” She glances anxiously between Satina and Zahara, a flicker of discomfort betraying her usual composure. “Storms are gentler against solid rock, or at least…less murderous. Otherwise,” her voice dips, “we’ll have to double back east—and I do not fancy losing all the ground we’ve covered.” Her gaze settles on the horizon, uncertain but resolute. “I know storms. They’ll swallow us whole if we gamble wrong.”
Sorry, I'm beginning to enter a vacation period and while I will try to check-in at least daily, I cannot promise that I will always be able to do so. From September 1, I should be back to normal.
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Elf Rogue - Wildnis || Rowan - Halfling Giant - Runewarren || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute || Arista - Frost Sorcerer - Old Keep || Marasatra - Blood Mage - Avernus ||
Nature or Survival (Survival with advantage due to slow pace) DC 15:
There currently aren't any signs of a khamsin forming.
Zahara: “How long before the shadow is upon us, great hunter?” “And where would you take refuge, if you wished to see another dawn?”
Zahara:
The falcon replies: "The great wind veers from our path here. We are far enough away. My home is south, toward the high lands."
Zahara’s breath steadies as she holds the falcon upon her wrist. She watches it, her gaze filled with respect, almost reverence. This was no trained beast, no pet bound by jesses and duty. It was a wild thing, free and untamed, an envoy of the endless heavens. It had no reason to mislead her.
Yet its words now contradicted those it had spoken before.
"The sky watches, Mistress, but does not weep. Walk on, or be buried where you stand."
She had taken the warning as absolute—a call to flee, to seek shelter before the storm devoured them. But now…
"The great wind veers from our path here. We are far enough away."
Her mind turns the words over, weighing their meaning. The khamsin would not reach them here. That much, the falcon knew as fact. It had felt the shifting currents of the air, had seen the storm’s path from a vantage none of them could share. And yet before, it had spoken of burial. Not in the storm’s wrath, then… but in something else.
Her amber eyes drift to the city before them—gleaming domes, impossibly white towers, banners that should not move in the still air. An illusion, Thoth had called it.
"But even illusions cast shadows… and some are more than tricks of the light."
The falcon would not speak in riddles for the sake of it. If the storm turned aside, then the threat must lie elsewhere. In the very place they sought to step into.
She exhales softly and shifts her wrist, allowing the falcon to settle, the warmth of its body stark against her sun-kissed skin. When she speaks, her voice is quiet, measured, but full of respect.
“Great Hunter of the Sky, you say the wind veers from us here, yet before, you warned me to walk on, or be buried.” Her brow furrows slightly. “What has changed?”
A pause. A flicker of thought in the depths of her gaze.
“Is it this place?” she murmurs, glancing at the city once more before turning back to the falcon. “Does it hold the storm at bay?”
Her fingers twitch slightly against her staff as the thought deepens, settling into something heavier.
"If the shadow does not come, then is danger from the one who made false city?"
She does not yet know if the falcon will answer, but she holds its gaze for a moment longer before turning sharply toward the others, her voice carrying across the sand.
“The storm will not touch us here.” There is no relief in her tone, only wary certainty.
Her gaze sweeps across Zephirah, Satina, and the others, lingering on their uncertain expressions.
“But we are still at risk.”
Zahara turns back to the group, her expression thoughtful but urgent.
“The falcon speaks in simple truths. It does not understand things as we do—only what it sees, what it knows. I am trying to understand whether the true danger is the storm… or the one who made this illusion.”
Her gaze sweeps across her companions, lingering on Zephirah. “If the storm will not bury us here, then something else might. I need to ask the right questions.”
Zahara: “Great Hunter of the Sky, you say the wind veers from us here, yet before, you warned me to walk on, or be buried.” Her brow furrows slightly. “What has changed?” "If the shadow does not come, then is danger from the one who made false city?"
Zahara:
The falcon replies: “While one great wind passes, another may come. They always do. Those ground-beings that wish to live do not remain in one place for long. The false city…” the falcon falters, unsure. “...I do not know.”
Satina looks a little agitated sitting atop her camel. "Zahara, are you saying now there is not a khamsin? I must admit, I am not seeing any signs of that." She is a bit confused about whether the woman is talking to the group or herself or the bird. "We should just move on and leave this apparition behind. You can talk to your bird as we go. You are just confusing yourself."
She isn't about to leave without the others, but she does urge her camel to move along a little bit, clearly ready to get moving.
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Liivi Orav, Barbarian || Vanizi, Warlock || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi || Neital Rhessil, Wizard
Iromae Quinaea, Cleric || Roxana Raincrest, Rogue || Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer
Zahara reaches into her pack with slow, deliberate movements, retrieving a strip of dried meat. She holds it out to the falcon, offering it with a quiet reverence. “A gift, Great Hunter, for your wisdom.” The falcon’s sharp eyes lock onto the morsel, and with precise, practiced movements, it takes the offering from her fingers.
As the raptor feeds, something clicks in Zahara’s mind. Food. Water. Sky. The falcon’s world is simple—survival in its purest form. It does not speak in hyperbole, only in what it knows.
Her fingers tighten slightly beneath the falcon’s grip. Then I must ask simply. She raises her gaze to the keen, piercing eyes of the bird. “Where is the danger?”
Satina’s voice cuts through the desert air.
Zahara turns to find the warrior atop her camel, impatience evident in her posture, in the way she urges her mount forward. Satina is not wrong to be frustrated—inaction is a kind of death in itself. But Zahara knows rushing forward without understanding may lead them into a different kind of grave.
She meets Satina’s gaze with a calm, measured tone, laced with the respect the warrior deserves. “I understand your frustration, Satina. Action is your way, and to stand still feels like waiting for death. But if we move too quickly in the wrong direction, we may be walking toward it instead.”
She gestures to the falcon. “It speaks only of what it knows—danger, safety, survival. I am trying to see through its eyes. A storm may not bury us here, but that does not mean we are safe. The one who cast this illusion… they remain unknown. That is the danger I seek to understand.”
Her expression is steady, but there is an underlying urgency in her voice. “Give me a moment more. If we must move, let us move knowing what we step into.”
Ophelia's Survival: 17
Even though the falcon has descended to converse and the alluring sight and scent of the apparently illusory city confronts them all, the she-elf is no longer looking at either one, gazing up instead as she often does at the wide blue sky, painful in its piercing starkness. No khamsin comes. Not yet.
Never richly musical and confident like Zephirah's, nor bluntly direct like Satina's, nor measured like Zahara's, nor scholarly like Thoth's, Ophelia's voice quavers as it often does, singsong and childlike, murmuring as if to someone only she can perceive.
"Of swirling storm no earthly trace,
Or should it rage, then not this place,
Or be it here, then another time.
Yet should it strike some other hour,
Flesh from bone our souls to scour,
Leaving naught but a whispering rhyme."
To the extent she is even aware enough to be paying attention to the her companions, Ophelia merely waits for them to decide what to do.
Tanis(Ranger1): Shiverquill's Tempest City | Xarian(Fighter2): NioNSwiper's Tyranny of Dragons
Dyson/Eleo(TwilightCleric4): Vos' Beyond the Veil | Soren(ShepherdDruid5): Bartjeebus' Ravenloft | Ophelia(WildMagicSorcerer4): Ashen_Age's Risen from the Sands
Joren(EchoKnightFighter6): NotDrizzt's Simple Request | Sabetha(MercyMonk3): Bedlymn's Murder Court | Seri(NatureCleric3/DivineSoulSorcerer1): Bartjeebus' Greyhawk
Nephthys didn't quite understand what kept the group from moving on now. As far as she could tell there was no indication that there was more danger ahead than anywhere else and while they may not be in any immediate hurry they should still keep moving when they could. "With respect Zahara, is it possible that you are overthinking this. Could it not simply be that the bird warned us from staying here or moving to meet our demise at that mirage. There has been no warning about simply moving on has there?" She finally asks, her tone laced with a hint of impatience now.
From the skies the tiny blue sphinx descends once more, calling out to the group. "I suggest you keep moving, you don't want to stay here longer than necessary, it is not a question of if a khamsin will come through here but when." He points out as a matter-of-factly before taking to the skies again.
Zahara stands still, her gaze fixed on the horizon, where the illusion of the city wavers in the heat. She listens—not just for the falcon’s response, but to the shifting air, the restlessness in the group. The unknown gnaws at them, fraying their patience. It is not the storm they fear now, but the absence of it.
She had asked the falcon the simplest question: Where is the danger? But the great hunter has not yet answered.
She exhales slowly, weighing the silence between the falcon’s last words and the unease rising among her companions. Waiting for an answer is wisdom. But waiting too long may cost them.
Her gaze flickers toward Zephirah. The outcrops. The suggestion is a sound one—shelter, structure, a way to lessen their exposure to whatever unseen threat lingers.
Zahara lifts her chin, speaking with measured calm. "The khamsin does not hunt us. But something does." Her eyes pass over each of them, lingering on Satina’s restrained impatience, Nephthys’ practical skepticism, the quiet weight of Ophelia’s musings. "The sands teach patience, but they do not demand stillness. We must move—but not blindly."
She shifts, her attention returning to the falcon. "Great Hunter, you say the storm passes, but another may come. You say the living do not remain in one place for long." Her voice, though soft, carries a quiet insistence. "Tell me then—where is the danger?"
Even as she awaits the answer, she nods to Zephirah. "The outcrops may give us the shelter we lack here. If we must move, let it be toward something that will hold against what we do not yet see."
Her gaze flickers toward the false city, its golden haze shimmering like a dream against the desert expanse. The falcon’s uncertainty troubles her. It knows the sky, the shifting dunes, the dangers that hunt in the open. But of this? Nothing. That means it is not of the desert. It is not real.
She speaks again, quieter, but no less firm. "I would not step toward the city. The falcon knows nothing of it, yet it is placed in our path—meant for us, by hands unseen. A test, a trap, or a lure for the weak-willed. Our very quest is built upon the weight of temptation. Why would this be any different?"
Her expression hardens slightly as she looks toward Satina, understanding her impatience. Action is life. Hesitation is death. But not all movement is forward. "I hear your urgency, Satina. But speed is not wisdom. The wrong step does not bring us closer to safety—it delivers us to those who wait unseen. Let us not give them what they seek."
"I am sorry Zahara but what you say make less and less sense. No one has suggested we should step towards the city and it is not in our path. Yes, it might well had been something to lure us away from our path and yes, we can't rule out that something hunts us but we are not blind, we found out that the city was a mirage didn't we, and Thoth is still our eyes in the sky, he will spot anyone hunting us." Nephthys says, clearly losing patience now, and now she simply starts walking on the path they were going, not towards the mirage but towards their destination.
Satina continues to move along. "Enough," she says. "Let's move on. Of course there is danger, but we cannot be paralyzed by conjecture. Hopefully our wits will be enough to help us. Your bird can tell you its cryptic thoughts while we move." She doesn't stop this time to see if others follow, she simply goes.
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Liivi Orav, Barbarian || Vanizi, Warlock || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi || Neital Rhessil, Wizard
Iromae Quinaea, Cleric || Roxana Raincrest, Rogue || Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer
The shifting sands of conversation erode into blunt impatience. Zahara watches as Nephthys pushes forward, her frustration clear, and Satina follows without hesitation. Their words are sharp, decisive—unyielding as stone beneath the desert sun.
A breath. A moment.
She does not meet them with argument. The desert does not shout over the wind—it lets the storm pass, reshaping itself in silence.
Still, she does not stand motionless. The sands teach patience, but they do not demand stillness. She moves, steps deliberate as ever, her path aligning with the others—but not conceding to their pace.
As she walks, her voice reaches them, unhurried but firm. "I do not speak to stop us. I speak to temper us."
Her eyes settle on Nephthys for a moment. "The mirage was seen, yes. But recognition does not undo intent. It was placed where we might see it, might wonder, might question. You are right—we did not step toward it. But why place a snare if no prey lingers near?"
Her gaze shifts to Satina’s retreating form, unreadable but unwavering. "We move. But we do not move thoughtlessly. To call caution paralysis is to mistake wisdom for fear. Our wits will serve us—but only if we use them before we must fight for them."
Then, softer, as she lifts her gaze once more to the endless sky, her steps carrying her forward: "Let us see if the sand shifts beneath us—or if something else does first."
The young dark-haired woman sighs and stops briefly, turning to respond. "I feel that we're not going forward in this discussion either. We don't know that this was a mirage created by magic. If it was I agree it might have been placed there for us, to lure us off our path, but that does still not necessarily mean that someone is waiting for us in our path right now, in fact it would be more likely they waited by that mirage. And even if there is someone waiting ahead, and I agree there might be at some point, what do you hope to achieve by waiting here. It was a neat trick to be able to consult that bird but you have a tendency to overcomplicate your thoughts as well as your words Zahara, I'm sorry but you do. As far as I can tell the bird simply warned us that another khamsin might get us if we linger here and that we'd better move on, no deeper mystery to it than that. As Satina said, please keep asking the bird questions but there is simply no reason you can't do that while we're moving. We can go on discussing this if you want when we move, I don't mind talking mind you, but when arguing you need to take a step forward sometimes or it gets a bit tedious you know." She says with a tired look, then turning to follow Satina again.
Zahara does not sigh. The desert does not bemoan the wind for shifting its dunes—it simply moves with it.
She studies the young woman as she speaks, not interrupting, not rushing to defend. There is truth in her words, but impatience laces them, like a traveler weary of a long journey yet blind to the path ahead. When the woman turns to follow Satina once more, Zahara finally responds, her voice measured, quiet, but firm.
"You mistake my stillness for hesitation, and my words for delay. I do not argue for the sake of arguing—I listen, I weigh, and I speak when it must be spoken."
She steps forward, her pace unhurried but unwavering, catching the woman's gaze for a brief moment. "You say you do not mind talking, yet you tire of what is said. Perhaps because you seek answers, while I seek understanding."
Her gaze drifts to the mirage one last time before turning ahead once more. "The illusion was not simply placed to lure us away, but to make us doubt the path before us. You say it would make more sense for a hunter to wait there. That is what they expect you to think. So tell me, if you laid a snare and it failed, would you not set another just ahead?"
She walks then, not apart from the others, but not chasing them either. "I am not blind to movement, nor am I deaf to urgency. We walk, and I will continue to listen—to the falcon, to the wind, to the shifting of the sands. Not because I doubt the need to move, but because I would rather step carefully now than run blindly into something worse."
Zahara: “Where is the danger?”
Zahara:
The falcon replies: “The great winds are dangerous, yes. Also on the ground there are dangers. Other creatures that walk on legs, like you. Other creatures that crawl on four legs.”
Seemily concluded sharing its knowledge, the falcon takes flight once more.
Menkaure’s map leads you southwest, toward the western edge of the Pillars of the Sun. They are a vast mountain range rising dramatically from the arid expanse of the Osirion desert.
Jagged peaks, weathered by time, stretch across the horizon, their rugged surfaces painted in hues of deep red, ochre, and dusty brown. Sunlight casts long shadows over the rocky terrain, emphasizing the craggy cliffs and deep ravines carved by centuries of erosion.
More hours pass. The landmarks become sparse—a jagged rock jutting like a broken tooth, the bones of a long-dead beast half-buried in the sand, an abandoned firepit filled with charred remains. The shadows lengthen, and the desert's true nature begins to show itself. The heat is no longer the enemy; it is the cold that creeps in, setting deep into your bones. The sky darkens to a deep, endless indigo, and the first stars begin to emerge, brighter and sharper than in the city.
Eto is now a memory, lost beyond the dunes. Ahead, the desert stretches, vast and merciless, daring you to take one step further into its ancient, unknowable depths.
Osirion | The Parched Dunes
Expedition Day 2
Supplies: 14
You set out again the next morning. At the base of a rocky cliff, you come upon the ruins of an old watchtower. It clings to the edge of a jagged bluff, battered by time and the relentless desert winds. Once a proud sentinel over the arid expanse, it now stands as a crumbling husk, its weathered stones bleached by the unforgiving sun. The remnants of its walls, pockmarked and eroded, rise unevenly, their edges jagged like broken teeth. At the tower’s base, the ground is littered with shattered masonry and sunbaked debris. A path on the eastern side provides easy access up the hill.
Actions? Do you investigate the watchtower?
The tiny blue sphinx comes down from the skies and lands on his students shoulder. "You can go on. I will take a closer look at that tower and catch up." He says plainly. Nephthys simply nods and weaves her divine magic to hide the sphinx from sight before he flies off to investigate the watchtower.
(Cast invisibility)
Satina watches as Thoth goes up to investigate the tower. "I see no reason to stop here, but such a watchtower could prove a good location to spy on us if any are out here looking for travelers. It's good that Thoth is checking it out."
She had traveled most of the rest of the previous day in relative silence. In her mind, it seemed clear that whatever warnings Zahara had thought she had gained were fruitless. By the time they stopped to rest she had put those thoughts out of mind for the most part. She eagerly helped everyone set up the tents and enjoyed a bit of a meal with them all.
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Liivi Orav, Barbarian || Vanizi, Warlock || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi || Neital Rhessil, Wizard
Iromae Quinaea, Cleric || Roxana Raincrest, Rogue || Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer
Zephirah glances over the crumbling watchtower, a faint shrug ghosting her shoulders as Thoth disappears against the sun-bleached stone. She does not envy the sphinx his solo reconnaissance—if anything lurks within, it doubtless appreciates the shelter and secrecy he hopes to uncover. But she merely arches a brow and says no more. They’ve chosen a measured pace for good reason: each stop costs time and resources, and their real prize lies deeper west among dunes that show no mercy to wanderers with empty flasks. She catches herself smiling, though, as she recalls how last night’s perfect canopy of stars revived her awe for the desert’s stark beauty; the play of moonlight on sand and the crisp hush of midnight wind had softened her usual city-bred yearning for easy luxuries. Even so, she sees no sense in getting sidetracked by every relic of past centuries. “He’ll be fine,” she murmurs at last, fingers idly brushing the camel’s bridle and urging to resume their slow pace. “We should keep moving—let the professor handle that pile of rubble. We’ve bigger mysteries awaiting us, and our rations won’t last forever.”
Sorry, I'm beginning to enter a vacation period and while I will try to check-in at least daily, I cannot promise that I will always be able to do so. From September 1, I should be back to normal.
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Elf Rogue - Wildnis || Rowan - Halfling Giant - Runewarren || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute || Arista - Frost Sorcerer - Old Keep || Marasatra - Blood Mage - Avernus ||