Zephirah’s gentle chords drift into a subdued undercurrent, weaving in and out of the conversation as she listens. She can’t help a small, wry smile when Zahara calls for a song of tomorrow rather than an elegy of endings. “Mm,” she murmurs softly, “something to remind us that the wind echoes not for itself, but so it won’t be forgotten… perhaps I do have a tune or two in mind.” Her silver eyes flick briefly to Satina, offering a wordless thank-you for the unexpected warmth of genuine concern. Once, she would have scoffed at such sentiments—seen them as frivolous or naïve. But time changes perspectives. A friend’s worry, she now realizes, can be quite the comforting balm against the world’s cruelties.
Zephirah’s fingers continue coaxing a soft, rolling undercurrent from her lyre, even as conversations ebb and flow around her. She shifts her gaze between Satina and Zahara, a small, playful smile finding her lips. “Music nourishes my soul nearly as much as these honeyed cakes,” she confides, lifting a slim piece of flatbread in a faux toast. “And I must say,” she adds lightly, her silver eyes gleaming, “I’m enjoying myself more now that our slithering desert snake has chosen to depart.”
Her gaze lingers on Zahara, recalling the conjured blossoms that had drifted through lamplight all evening. “I have just the thing,” she murmurs, carefully adjusting the strings of her lyre. “A tune inspired by the night’s ephemeral flowers… I believe it’s called Desert Rose (link).” She raises an eyebrow, letting her voice dip into a gentle hush that seems meant for Zahara alone. “This one is for you, my dear.”
Zephirah’s voice joins the lyre, soft at first, then rising with a quiet, heady confidence. She allows herself a moment of vulnerability—her normally guarded demeanor yielding to the emotional resonance of the song. For a heartbeat, she is neither sly manipulator nor brazen performer, but simply a soul reawakening to friendship, possibility, and the bittersweet allure of what tomorrow may bring.
It is early morning, before the rising of the sun. The city of Eto still slumbers beneath a violet sky, the last embers of night clinging to the towering sandstone buildings carved with the visages of gods and half-forgotten pharaohs. The air is cool, whispering with the hush of a desert breeze that snakes through the labyrinthine streets, stirring the golden dust left behind from yesterday’s bustling bazaar. You cross the vast marketplace, now eerily quiet. Stalls are shuttered or empty, their awnings fluttering, and the scent of yesterday’s spices, cinnamon, cardamom, and myrrh, lingers in the air. Somewhere beyond the bazaar, the first call to morning prayer rises, a haunting chant drifting across the city as the stars begin their slow retreat from the heavens.
Beyond the empty stalls, a large stables stretches beneath a colonnade of palm-wood beams. The scent of hay, sweat, and damp earth mixes with the soft murmurs of slumbering beasts. Inside, rows of camels rest on their folded legs, their great, liquid eyes blinking drowsily. Among them are stranger creatures: massive ibex-like beasts with curling golden horns, slight riding horses built for speed, and even a sand-colored drake with leathery wings folded tight.
Waiting for you is a tall, lean man draped in a fine but unassuming pale linen robe. His face is angular, with high cheekbones and soft brown eyes. Those eyes, shrouded beneath the shadow of a light silk hood, seem keen and watchful, missing no detail. Nearby are five camels, loaded with saddles and equipment.
“Good morning. I am Nesumenkaure. Lord Menkaure wishes you warm sands and cool waters. Here are your camels. They carry rations and water enough for fifteen days, which should be more than needed, ten torches, five sleeping mats, and three tents.” He looks around, before quickly producing and handing over a scroll case. ‘Your destination lies ninety miles west, south-west, beyond the mountains of the Pillars of the Sun. My Lord says you are adventurers. I need not warn you of the danger.”
The map indicates a location deep within the Parched Dunes to the southwest. The route is drawn to skirt the base of the mighty mountain range known as the Pillars of the Sun, just south of Eto.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Zephirah stands leaning against a sandy column, fingers slipping errantly across the flute’s polished surface in a lull of frustration. The early hour and chill in the desert air do nothing to brighten her mood—nor does she bother to return Nesu’s courteous greeting. Her only answer is the initially uneven tune drifting past her lips, a testament to her own sourness at having to rise before dawn. The gurgling whisper of drowsy camels, the rustling of tents and harnesses—she pays them all little mind. Now and then, her silver gaze flicks toward the slumbering drake, its impressive form a momentary fascination, but mostly she stays cloistered in her music, letting each new bar smooth the edges of her irritation. Slowly, her notes grow stronger, surer; a subtle magic seeps into her every breath and finger placement, bolstering her spirit with the arcane echo of False Life (for 12 tHP). By the time the final lingering note fades, there’s a trace of wicked humor in her eyes once more. She straightens, cradling her flute against her chest, and deigns to glance at her companions—just in time to see how they’ll handle the dealings with Nesumenkaure.
(With all the singing, and her Entertainer origin feature, everyone, including her, should have heroic inspiration by now.)
"Good morning Nesumenkaure. We are indeed the adventurers you were awaiting. We are most grateful to you and Lord Menkaure for his generosity." The young dark-haired woman says with a polite smile and a small bow as she accepts the offered scroll case, taking out the scroll inside to take a look, holding it up for the tiny blue sphinx at her shoulder and her companions to study it with her, making calculations based on her experience of travelling through the desert.
Nepththys has seemed excited this morning, excited to journey once more across the dunes in search of another mysterious tomb, even hoping for adventure and danger on her path. Thoth studies the map with a pleased expression, taking note of details that would reveal more about it than would first meet the eye.
Satina is up early - begrudgingly, but without complaint. Freshening up quickly, she took her time putting on her armor and making her way to join the others. There is something she likes about the chill breeze and quiet of the pre-dawn morning.
In a good mood, she listens closely to Nesumenkaure. "Hello and thank you for your help," she replies to him. She glances at the camels and supplies he had mentioned. Then her eyes start to scan the group, making sure all are present.
Zephirah is of course playing music. When Nephthys grabs the scroll containing the map, she asks her, "I presume you and Thoth will be able to help us navigate?" To the rest she says, "I believe I am ready to get moving. Anything else before we depart?"
Zahara moves through the still-sleeping city with the ease of one who knows the desert’s quiet hours well. The violet sky above, the lingering scent of spice, the whisper of wind through the empty bazaar—it is a moment of transition, when the night gives way, but the sun has not yet claimed its dominion.
Nesumenkaure stands waiting, tall and composed, his gaze sharp even in the softened morning light. Zahara listens as he speaks, her own expression calm, impassive.
At his words of warning, a hint of dry amusement flickers across her face. “The desert does not warn—it simply is.” She glances at the camels, assessing their burdens with the practiced eye of one who has spent years alone in the sands.
Her gaze returns to Nesumenkaure. “We will meet what awaits us beyond the Pillars of the Sun. Whether it meets us as friend or foe—” a slight tilt of her head, “—is yet to be seen.”
She steps past him toward the animals, her hand brushing over the sleek fur of one of the massive ibex-like beasts before resting against the coarse flank of a camel. The rhythm of their breath, slow and steady, is familiar. Reliable.
With a final glance at the sky, where the last stars are fading into dawn, Zahara turns back to the others. “Is it time?”
The city of Eto is protected from the desert sands and the vicious khamsin winds by a series of cliffs that ring the city, creating a strangely cylindrical crater roughly a mile wide and 60 feet deep. Hidden springs seep through cracks in the cliffs, and clean water flows down smoothly eroded stone troughs into the city’s cisterns. Water is precious in Eto; the local supply is supplemented by several deep wells sunk into the crater’s floor.
The last cool breath of the city clings to your skin as you pass beyond the safety of its high, sun-scorched cliffs. Behind you, Eto hums with life. But ahead, the world stretches wide and empty, the desert swallowing sound, space, and time.
At first, the path is well-worn. It is a caravan road carved by the passage of countless feet, hooves, and wagon wheels. The ground is firm here, compacted by years of travel. Small shrines to the likes of Pharasma and Nethys, their stone faces smoothed by the wind, stand as silent watchers, marking the boundary between civilization and the unknown. Travelers often leave offerings at the feet of the shrines, a clay bowl, a scattering of dried figs, a single coin, for the gods of the desert are fickle, and to walk their sands without favor is to court disaster. Tag?
Soon, the road fades, claimed by the shifting dunes. The heat rises in waves, distorting the horizon. Each step forward feels as if it is being swallowed by the earth, footprints vanishing behind you almost as quickly as they are made. The wind is ever-present, whispering through the dunes like the voices of the forgotten, stirring eddies of golden sand that coil and slither like living things.
The sun climbs higher, and the air grows heavy. The camels grunt as they plod forward, their padded feet making little sound against the sand. A lone falcon circles high above, its wings barely moving, a speck of shadow against the burning sky. The silence is profound, broken only by the rhythmic creak of leather saddles, the soft crunch of shifting sand, and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures burrowing beneath the dunes. The heat shimmers off them, turning the desert into a restless sea. As the sun reaches its zenith, the air itself seems to ripple.
And then, there it is.
Rising from the northwestern horizon like a vision from the gods, an incredibly beautiful city stands against the backdrop of endless sand. Its towering spires gleam like polished ivory, their tips catching the light and casting brilliant flashes across the sky. Broad, gleaming domes rise above streets paved in marble, reflecting the sunlight like the surface of a still oasis. Banners of deep crimson and gold flutter from tall minarets, despite the absence of wind. Even from this distance, the scent of jasmine and myrrh seems to drift toward the party, carried on air that should hold nothing but the dry taste of dust.
Survival DC 12:
There shouldn’t be any such city in that location.
Actions? Do you deviate from the course and head northwest to explore the city, or do you follow the map’s route and continue southwest?
Zahara moves through the desert with a steady, practiced pace, her steps careful but unwavering. The first stretch of the journey had been easy, the well-worn caravan road familiar beneath her feet. The shrines they passed stood as quiet guardians, worn smooth by time, their watchful presence a comfort against the vast, devouring silence of the dunes beyond.
She stops at one, an ancient marker of Pharasma, the goddess of fate. The wind has softened its edges, worn its inscriptions to whispers of what they once were, but Zahara knows well enough what it represents. She kneels, pressing her fingers lightly to the stone, a moment of reverence passing through her.
"May the sands guide gently, and the threads of fate not fray," she murmurs, placing a single gold coin at the base of the shrine. The offering is small, but in the desert, even a drop of water can mean survival.
Then, she rises, her cloak stirring around her ankles, and presses forward into the dunes.
The road soon disappears beneath shifting sands, swallowed whole as if it had never been. The sun is relentless, pressing down upon the travelers with an almost tangible weight. Zahara’s breath slows, measured, conserving energy. The desert has its own rhythm—one she knows well.
Then, impossibly, it appears.
A city. Towering spires of gleaming ivory, domes of polished stone reflecting the sun like still water. Crimson and gold banners flutter from minarets, though there is no wind to carry them. The scent of jasmine and myrrh drifts toward them on air that should hold nothing but dust.
There should be nothing here.
A shadow crosses the sun. High above, a lone falcon circles. A watcher on the wind.
Her decision is swift. She presses her hands together, fingers interlocking, and whispers the words of an incantation. Her connection to nature answers—power weaving through her like a thread pulled taut. Her perception shifts, and suddenly, the falcon’s distant cries carry meaning.
Yet distance remains a barrier.
With a single step forward, Zahara raises her hand to the sky, her voice rolling out in amplified waves, vast as the dunes themselves.
Zahara turns to the group. "I am calling the falcon to us,"she explains, without looking away from the sky. "It may see what we do not. I would have its sight before we step closer to what should not be."
“Come, proud hunter,” she calls, her words resounding with the force of the spell.
Before she can turn, a soft note thrums through the air—a familiar sound, playful and deliberate. Zephirah’s fingers pluck at the strings of her lyre, and an illusion shimmers to life. A small rodent twitches, its movements sharp and enticing, a perfect lure.Zahara nods towards Zepirah and turns skyward once more.
Her voice booms, stretching into the open sky. "Feast, and grant me your wisdom of these lands."
Then, with a final whisper, she traces a sigil over her wrist, the divine glow lingering before fading into her skin. A final divine gift of guidance.
She extends her arm, steady and sure.
The falcon circles once, twice—then folds its wings and dives.
The descent is swift, a blur of feathers and shadow, until talons find purchase on Zahara’s wrist. The bird is lighter than it looks, its grip firm but not painful, its golden eyes sharp and knowing.
Zahara meets its gaze, lips curling into a sly grin. She flicks a glance at Zephirah, nodding in quiet acknowledgment.
As the journey begins, Satina takes a close look at the small stone shrines. She asks of the group, "What are these? I apologize, but I don't recognize the names." Seeing how small offerings are being made, she wishes to participate as well, but isn't sure which might be most appropriate for her.
Moving along further into the desert, she occasionally rides the camel, but much of the time she walks. She says little, taking in this world of sand and the sun's heat. With her armor the heat is a bit oppressive, but she says nothing of it and simply keeps on going. Regular, small sips of water keep her hydrated, a practice she had learned in times past as a soldier. It all became a bit of a routine that she got lost in, relaxing in its own way.
The appearance of the fabulous city brings her to a halt. "You all see the city too, right? Nothing ought to be there." She then hears the mention a falcon. She glances up, spotting it up high in the sky. She can hardly start to wonder what Zahara will do when she hears Zephirah's music start to play. It's a bit startling when Zahara calls out so loudly. Then surprisingly the falcon is diving down towards them. She may be surprised, but she is quite impressed with the ingenious work of the pair of tieflings.
Also, a little bit concerned with all the noise being made, she does cast a look around to see if any others might be near-by and heard the commotion. (Perception: 16)
Previous Night: Ophelia sways soundlessly, entranced by Zephirah's music, violet eyes staring upward unfocused, and lips slightly parted as they often are.
Pre-dawn: Even were she a human (or a tiefling), sleep might prove elusive for one such as Ophelia, yet being an elf, the border between her trance and consciousness is not easily perceived. Four hours sitting alone in the middle of the night is not so different from what she might do while the sun is up. Still, at dawn her new companions find her waiting for them, surprisingly well-prepared to embark with her pack and gear ready, expression oddly subdued.
Leaving Eto: At the shrines near the city's edge, Ophelia wordlessly, almost absently, offers three gold pieces, one each to three shrines, chosen seemingly at random (subtracted 3gp). Sensing Satina's uncertainty, she touches the woman's shoulder and points at a shrine to Pharasma, though it is unclear whether Ophelia has a reason to do so. The elven woman does not linger to watch whether Satina makes any offering, instead turning to face the desert and raising a thin scarf to cover her own throat and face, save for her violet eyes.
The Desert: When the vision of the city appears and its scents reach her nostrils, Ophelia stands quietly for a moment. She shakes her head dreamily, apparently concurring with Satina and Zahara's contention that nothing of the sort should exist in that place.
"So tread we travelers, trudging on, astride the sand-strewn sea, Whisperingly, whisperingly witness, to a where which should not be..."
She glances up to gaze at the falcon before it descends. Turning and turning in a widening gyre... yet, who is the falconer and who the falcon?
Zephirah walked alongside the camels, a thin frown ghosting her lips as she contemplated the oddity of it all. They were her caravan now, or at least their caravan, and somehow that made her feel both liberated and unsettled. She’d guarded plenty of wagons before, especially with Satina’s reliable strength at her side, but never had she truly belonged to one. It was always a matter of shared roads, not shared goals. Now, her own pack rested on the back of a hump-backed beast instead of digging into her shoulders, freeing her gait yet the trek still preventing her from indulging in the constant strum of her lyre. City life was so much more conducive to spontaneous performances, and part of her quietly lamented the sand-swept silence. Still, it struck her how far she’d come from that lone performer who prized her independence above all else. Companions. A purpose. A shared responsibility. The morning sun’s glare felt like a persistent reminder that she had changed more than she ever imagined.
She soon found her musings interrupted by an impossible vision—a gleaming city upon the horizon where none should exist, the thought of an elaborate illusion instantly springing to her mind. At Zahara’s urging, the falcon overhead became their key to unmasking whatever illusion might be at play. Zephirah didn’t hesitate to conjure a skittering rodent with a flick of her fingers, weaving a small, perfect illusion that hopped enticingly along a dune. In that fleeting instant, she flirted with the idea of simply enchanting the falcon outright—seizing its will, binding it to her needs. It would have been so easy: a few arcane words, a gaze set just so, and the bird’s free spirit would be hers to command. Yet, the druid raised her arm, coaxing the bird to land by skill alone—no bribes of magic, no forced obedience. The falcon folded its wings with regal composure, talons finding Zahara’s forearm in a gesture of quiet trust. Zephirah felt an unexpected pang of shame. She paused, unsettled by how swiftly she’d been ready to impose her will upon a creature that was, perhaps, already inclined to offer help.
The memory of her youth under the night hag’s manipulation soured her stomach, reminding her of every time she’d been forced to lure unsuspecting souls. That was a road she’d sworn never to tread again. Let her magic be used on those who attacked or threatened, not on creatures already willing to help. She found herself reevaluating Zahara’s skill with quiet admiration. She, who had spent her life coaxing souls with illusions and persuasive words, recognized a similar subtle mastery in the druid’s approach to forging trust with a wild creature. It was a dimension she hadn’t fully appreciated—one that cast Zahara in a fresh, unexpected light. A faint laugh escaped her lips—part relief, part admiration. “Well done,” she murmured, watching the falcon’s keen eyes flicker between them. Her own silver gaze softened, resolved. Yes, she thought, she would never become like Hekate. She would fight with all the cunning and enchantment at her disposal when enemies rose against them, but she’d not forget that there are differences between those and a willing ally or a helpless victim.
The falcon circles once, twice, then folds its wings and dives. Its descent is swift, an arrow of beak and feathers. Then it sweeps its wings wide, the sudden force kicking up a swirl of golden dust. Talons outstretched, it lands heavily on Zahara’s wrist. Its grip is firm and powerful, a reminder of the wild strength held in such a small frame. Its eyes meet Zahara’s, and for a moment, the desert seems to pause, as if listening to secrets only she and the falcon know.
Zahara:
"The sky watches, Mistress, but does not weep. Walk on, or be buried where you stand."
She simply looks at the falcon, drinking in its presence, feeling the weight of it—not just the press of its talons against her wrist, but the sheer power held within its frame. Every muscle poised, every feather sharp against the wind, a creature shaped by the sky itself.
She exhales slowly, respect evident in the careful way she adjusts her arm, ensuring the bird’s perch is steady. Then, finally, she lets her lips part.
“The sky watches, but does not weep,”she murmurs, tasting the words as she would the first sip of water after a long journey. She tilts her head slightly, considering, not just from a human perspective, but from that of the falcon—one who soars above all things, who sees the world in sweeps of movement and shadow, in hunger and instinct.
The sky watches, but does not weep.
A storm brings rain, brings change, brings motion. But the sky now is clear, silent—watching, waiting. That means something.
Then the second half, an unspoken warning curling at the edges of her mind like shifting dunes.
"Walk on, or be buried where you stand."
A flicker of alarm sparks in her golden eyes, bright as sunlight on sand.
The desert buries many things—those too weak to cross it, those who linger where they should not, those who do not belong. But buried where they stand? That was something else entirely.
Zahara lifts her gaze back to the falcon’s piercing gold eyes.
“You speak in winds and sand, hunter.” Her tone is not accusatory, but thoughtful, reverent. “The sky does not weep, yet the ground swallows.” She lets the words settle between them like dust before pressing further.
Zahara contemplates the meaning. “What lies ahead? A place that does not wish to be known? Or a thing that waits for those who step too close?”
Her throat begins to feel dry, but not from the desert air.
“Does the sky see what the ground will claim?”
She does not expect a clear answer. Wild things do not speak in absolutes. But something about the falcon’s words sends a prickle of unease down her spine. She glances toward Zephirah first, then the others, expression grave.
“The falcon has given a warning.”Her voice is quiet, but firm. “We may not be the only ones interested in this city, or worse.”
"You are indeed right, there is no city there, a mirage of the desert most likely."The tiny blue sphinx says in it's scholarly voice to Satina and the others as it briefly comes flying down from above, then flying closer to the city in order to get affirmation of it's suspicion.
"We should go on, he will catch up." Nephthys says to the others, slowly starting to move again. She had seen the two tieflings cooperate to befriend the raptor. While it's warning had been somewhat vague she didn't doubt it would be a valuable ally on the journey ahead. "And well done indeed." She adds with a smile to the pair of resourceful tieflings.
As they had left Eto the tiny blue sphinx had taken his student to pay their respects to the gods with long winded practiced prayers from the holy texts. Thoth would then have talked to Satina about the shrines and their gods for as long as she would endure it.
Later Thoth had taken to the clear sky to spread his blue wings and enjoy the sight flying high above the desert, scouting for threats and other travellers, particularly any who would seem to follow the companions through the desert.
Zephirah raises an eyebrow, listening to the falcon’s portent with faint amusement etched in her silver eyes. “‘The sky does not weep,’” she echoes softly, moving her flute from one hand to the other. “Well, yes—welcome to the desert. We see precious little rain, and the dunes shift like restless cats.” She cants her head toward Zahara, tone growing contemplative. “A warning, yes—but perhaps it’s simply stating what we already know. The sand, especially the dunes, tend to bury what lingers in its path. Perhaps, it does warn that a sandstorm is on the horizon.”
Her fingers skim across the flute, as though pondering a quiet tune during their brief respite from trudging through the sand. “If the bird’s so talkative, maybe we should ask it where it finds water—or if it’s noticed any larger predators skulking around these parts. Or if it is willing to accompany us for a bit in exchange of food and water.” She pauses, exhaling a dry laugh. “That’s probably the sort of insight we can use—and get. No sense in ignoring a creature that might spot trouble while we’re still squinting at the sun.”
Zephirah gives Nephthys a quick nod and swivels back to Zahara. “I agree—we should press on. If a storm is brewing, we’ll want to be well ahead of it or, failing that, find some natural shelter before it roars our way.” She gestures vaguely toward the distant mountains, the shadowy line just beyond the dunes. “Might be better to hole up near some solid rock than to try and outrun a sandstorm on open ground. Say,” her gaze sharpens slightly, “I’ve known druids who sense the weather before it bites. Any chance you can tell if the skies will favor us—or turn on us? Just so we know whether we have to contemplate a storm.”
It is not long before you notice Thoth catch up with the tomb raiders, descending in front of the caravan to proclaim. "A mirage, admittedly a particularly impressive one, but none the less just a trick to the eye."He then lets his wings take him up into the sky once more from where he again keeps an eye out for threats and other travellers, particularly any who would seem to follow the caravan through the desert.
Earlier in the journey: Satina had accepted Ophelia's direction towards the shrine of Pharasma and gone and left a gold coin there. She said nothing aloud, but in her head she hoped for safety for all of the group in the desert. She had also listened to the information Thoth offered, though she wasn't sure she would remember all of it.
As the group had stopped to contemplate the city that has appeared, Satina felt surprised to clearly understand what Ophelia had said. 'A where which should not be.' That was exactly what this was. Zahara's words she struggled to follow though, as she seemed to be talking to the falcon?
Thoth's words though rang clear. "If nothing is there, let's go." She is back onto her camel, prepared to move on. "I do still wonder what this might be. How do we all imagine the same thing that did not exist? Is someone setting a trap here? Or is this a common thing in the desert?"
The falcon’s words settle into her bones like shifting sand, a whisper of dread curling through her chest.
Her fingers remain still, careful not to tighten as the falcon’s sharp talons press against her wrist. She has heard what a khamsin can do—these storms do not merely pass. They consume.
Her eyes flick westward, narrowing against the brightness of the sun. The air is still, but she knows that means nothing. The desert does not always give warning before it bares its teeth.
She turns her gaze back to the falcon, her voice low, urgent, yet still filled with reverence. “How long before the shadow is upon us, great hunter?” There is no demand in her tone—only the respect due to one who knows the sky better than any mortal traveler.
Her free hand curls slightly at her side. “And where would you take refuge, if you wished to see another dawn?”
Her breath is slow, measured, but her pulse beats quick beneath her skin. The khamsin does not care for travelers, nor does it grant mercy to those caught in its path. If it comes, they must move. Now.
Then, without looking away from the falcon, she speaks—her voice steady, but laced with urgency.
"A khamsin is coming."
Her fingers shift slightly beneath the falcon’s talons, a silent acknowledgment of its warning. Then she lifts her chin, eyes flicking westward once more.
"Sometimes these mirages are created by a capricious djinn, we can't rule out that this was a deliberate attempt to lure us astray."Nephthys says grimly. She too had lived in the desert for all of her life and was not surprised to hear her mentor's report.
As Zahara warns them a khamsin is coming, the young dark-haired woman contacts her mentor, asking him to look for signs of a storm coming.
Zephirah’s gentle chords drift into a subdued undercurrent, weaving in and out of the conversation as she listens. She can’t help a small, wry smile when Zahara calls for a song of tomorrow rather than an elegy of endings. “Mm,” she murmurs softly, “something to remind us that the wind echoes not for itself, but so it won’t be forgotten… perhaps I do have a tune or two in mind.” Her silver eyes flick briefly to Satina, offering a wordless thank-you for the unexpected warmth of genuine concern. Once, she would have scoffed at such sentiments—seen them as frivolous or naïve. But time changes perspectives. A friend’s worry, she now realizes, can be quite the comforting balm against the world’s cruelties.
Zephirah’s fingers continue coaxing a soft, rolling undercurrent from her lyre, even as conversations ebb and flow around her. She shifts her gaze between Satina and Zahara, a small, playful smile finding her lips. “Music nourishes my soul nearly as much as these honeyed cakes,” she confides, lifting a slim piece of flatbread in a faux toast. “And I must say,” she adds lightly, her silver eyes gleaming, “I’m enjoying myself more now that our slithering desert snake has chosen to depart.”
Her gaze lingers on Zahara, recalling the conjured blossoms that had drifted through lamplight all evening. “I have just the thing,” she murmurs, carefully adjusting the strings of her lyre. “A tune inspired by the night’s ephemeral flowers… I believe it’s called Desert Rose (link).” She raises an eyebrow, letting her voice dip into a gentle hush that seems meant for Zahara alone. “This one is for you, my dear.”
Zephirah’s voice joins the lyre, soft at first, then rising with a quiet, heady confidence. She allows herself a moment of vulnerability—her normally guarded demeanor yielding to the emotional resonance of the song. For a heartbeat, she is neither sly manipulator nor brazen performer, but simply a soul reawakening to friendship, possibility, and the bittersweet allure of what tomorrow may bring.
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
It is early morning, before the rising of the sun. The city of Eto still slumbers beneath a violet sky, the last embers of night clinging to the towering sandstone buildings carved with the visages of gods and half-forgotten pharaohs. The air is cool, whispering with the hush of a desert breeze that snakes through the labyrinthine streets, stirring the golden dust left behind from yesterday’s bustling bazaar. You cross the vast marketplace, now eerily quiet. Stalls are shuttered or empty, their awnings fluttering, and the scent of yesterday’s spices, cinnamon, cardamom, and myrrh, lingers in the air. Somewhere beyond the bazaar, the first call to morning prayer rises, a haunting chant drifting across the city as the stars begin their slow retreat from the heavens.
Beyond the empty stalls, a large stables stretches beneath a colonnade of palm-wood beams. The scent of hay, sweat, and damp earth mixes with the soft murmurs of slumbering beasts. Inside, rows of camels rest on their folded legs, their great, liquid eyes blinking drowsily. Among them are stranger creatures: massive ibex-like beasts with curling golden horns, slight riding horses built for speed, and even a sand-colored drake with leathery wings folded tight.
Waiting for you is a tall, lean man draped in a fine but unassuming pale linen robe. His face is angular, with high cheekbones and soft brown eyes. Those eyes, shrouded beneath the shadow of a light silk hood, seem keen and watchful, missing no detail. Nearby are five camels, loaded with saddles and equipment.
“Good morning. I am Nesumenkaure. Lord Menkaure wishes you warm sands and cool waters. Here are your camels. They carry rations and water enough for fifteen days, which should be more than needed, ten torches, five sleeping mats, and three tents.” He looks around, before quickly producing and handing over a scroll case. ‘Your destination lies ninety miles west, south-west, beyond the mountains of the Pillars of the Sun. My Lord says you are adventurers. I need not warn you of the danger.”
The map indicates a location deep within the Parched Dunes to the southwest. The route is drawn to skirt the base of the mighty mountain range known as the Pillars of the Sun, just south of Eto.
Zephirah stands leaning against a sandy column, fingers slipping errantly across the flute’s polished surface in a lull of frustration. The early hour and chill in the desert air do nothing to brighten her mood—nor does she bother to return Nesu’s courteous greeting. Her only answer is the initially uneven tune drifting past her lips, a testament to her own sourness at having to rise before dawn. The gurgling whisper of drowsy camels, the rustling of tents and harnesses—she pays them all little mind. Now and then, her silver gaze flicks toward the slumbering drake, its impressive form a momentary fascination, but mostly she stays cloistered in her music, letting each new bar smooth the edges of her irritation. Slowly, her notes grow stronger, surer; a subtle magic seeps into her every breath and finger placement, bolstering her spirit with the arcane echo of False Life (for 12 tHP). By the time the final lingering note fades, there’s a trace of wicked humor in her eyes once more. She straightens, cradling her flute against her chest, and deigns to glance at her companions—just in time to see how they’ll handle the dealings with Nesumenkaure.
(With all the singing, and her Entertainer origin feature, everyone, including her, should have heroic inspiration by now.)
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
"Good morning Nesumenkaure. We are indeed the adventurers you were awaiting. We are most grateful to you and Lord Menkaure for his generosity." The young dark-haired woman says with a polite smile and a small bow as she accepts the offered scroll case, taking out the scroll inside to take a look, holding it up for the tiny blue sphinx at her shoulder and her companions to study it with her, making calculations based on her experience of travelling through the desert.
Nepththys has seemed excited this morning, excited to journey once more across the dunes in search of another mysterious tomb, even hoping for adventure and danger on her path. Thoth studies the map with a pleased expression, taking note of details that would reveal more about it than would first meet the eye.
Satina is up early - begrudgingly, but without complaint. Freshening up quickly, she took her time putting on her armor and making her way to join the others. There is something she likes about the chill breeze and quiet of the pre-dawn morning.
In a good mood, she listens closely to Nesumenkaure. "Hello and thank you for your help," she replies to him. She glances at the camels and supplies he had mentioned. Then her eyes start to scan the group, making sure all are present.
Zephirah is of course playing music. When Nephthys grabs the scroll containing the map, she asks her, "I presume you and Thoth will be able to help us navigate?" To the rest she says, "I believe I am ready to get moving. Anything else before we depart?"
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 || Satina Cindermark, Fighter || Meira Dheran, Rogue
Zahara moves through the still-sleeping city with the ease of one who knows the desert’s quiet hours well. The violet sky above, the lingering scent of spice, the whisper of wind through the empty bazaar—it is a moment of transition, when the night gives way, but the sun has not yet claimed its dominion.
Nesumenkaure stands waiting, tall and composed, his gaze sharp even in the softened morning light. Zahara listens as he speaks, her own expression calm, impassive.
At his words of warning, a hint of dry amusement flickers across her face. “The desert does not warn—it simply is.” She glances at the camels, assessing their burdens with the practiced eye of one who has spent years alone in the sands.
Her gaze returns to Nesumenkaure. “We will meet what awaits us beyond the Pillars of the Sun. Whether it meets us as friend or foe—” a slight tilt of her head, “—is yet to be seen.”
She steps past him toward the animals, her hand brushing over the sleek fur of one of the massive ibex-like beasts before resting against the coarse flank of a camel. The rhythm of their breath, slow and steady, is familiar. Reliable.
With a final glance at the sky, where the last stars are fading into dawn, Zahara turns back to the others. “Is it time?”
Osirion | The Parched Dunes
Expedition Day 1
Supplies: 15/15
The city of Eto is protected from the desert sands and the vicious khamsin winds by a series of cliffs that ring the city, creating a strangely cylindrical crater roughly a mile wide and 60 feet deep. Hidden springs seep through cracks in the cliffs, and clean water flows down smoothly eroded stone troughs into the city’s cisterns. Water is precious in Eto; the local supply is supplemented by several deep wells sunk into the crater’s floor.
The last cool breath of the city clings to your skin as you pass beyond the safety of its high, sun-scorched cliffs. Behind you, Eto hums with life. But ahead, the world stretches wide and empty, the desert swallowing sound, space, and time.
At first, the path is well-worn. It is a caravan road carved by the passage of countless feet, hooves, and wagon wheels. The ground is firm here, compacted by years of travel. Small shrines to the likes of Pharasma and Nethys, their stone faces smoothed by the wind, stand as silent watchers, marking the boundary between civilization and the unknown. Travelers often leave offerings at the feet of the shrines, a clay bowl, a scattering of dried figs, a single coin, for the gods of the desert are fickle, and to walk their sands without favor is to court disaster. Tag?
Soon, the road fades, claimed by the shifting dunes. The heat rises in waves, distorting the horizon. Each step forward feels as if it is being swallowed by the earth, footprints vanishing behind you almost as quickly as they are made. The wind is ever-present, whispering through the dunes like the voices of the forgotten, stirring eddies of golden sand that coil and slither like living things.
The sun climbs higher, and the air grows heavy. The camels grunt as they plod forward, their padded feet making little sound against the sand. A lone falcon circles high above, its wings barely moving, a speck of shadow against the burning sky. The silence is profound, broken only by the rhythmic creak of leather saddles, the soft crunch of shifting sand, and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures burrowing beneath the dunes. The heat shimmers off them, turning the desert into a restless sea. As the sun reaches its zenith, the air itself seems to ripple.
And then, there it is.
Rising from the northwestern horizon like a vision from the gods, an incredibly beautiful city stands against the backdrop of endless sand. Its towering spires gleam like polished ivory, their tips catching the light and casting brilliant flashes across the sky. Broad, gleaming domes rise above streets paved in marble, reflecting the sunlight like the surface of a still oasis. Banners of deep crimson and gold flutter from tall minarets, despite the absence of wind. Even from this distance, the scent of jasmine and myrrh seems to drift toward the party, carried on air that should hold nothing but the dry taste of dust.
Survival DC 12:
There shouldn’t be any such city in that location.
Actions? Do you deviate from the course and head northwest to explore the city, or do you follow the map’s route and continue southwest?
Zahara moves through the desert with a steady, practiced pace, her steps careful but unwavering. The first stretch of the journey had been easy, the well-worn caravan road familiar beneath her feet. The shrines they passed stood as quiet guardians, worn smooth by time, their watchful presence a comfort against the vast, devouring silence of the dunes beyond.
She stops at one, an ancient marker of Pharasma, the goddess of fate. The wind has softened its edges, worn its inscriptions to whispers of what they once were, but Zahara knows well enough what it represents. She kneels, pressing her fingers lightly to the stone, a moment of reverence passing through her.
"May the sands guide gently, and the threads of fate not fray," she murmurs, placing a single gold coin at the base of the shrine. The offering is small, but in the desert, even a drop of water can mean survival.
Then, she rises, her cloak stirring around her ankles, and presses forward into the dunes.
The road soon disappears beneath shifting sands, swallowed whole as if it had never been. The sun is relentless, pressing down upon the travelers with an almost tangible weight. Zahara’s breath slows, measured, conserving energy. The desert has its own rhythm—one she knows well.
Then, impossibly, it appears.
A city. Towering spires of gleaming ivory, domes of polished stone reflecting the sun like still water. Crimson and gold banners flutter from minarets, though there is no wind to carry them. The scent of jasmine and myrrh drifts toward them on air that should hold nothing but dust.
There should be nothing here.
A shadow crosses the sun. High above, a lone falcon circles. A watcher on the wind.
Her decision is swift. She presses her hands together, fingers interlocking, and whispers the words of an incantation. Her connection to nature answers—power weaving through her like a thread pulled taut. Her perception shifts, and suddenly, the falcon’s distant cries carry meaning.
Yet distance remains a barrier.
With a single step forward, Zahara raises her hand to the sky, her voice rolling out in amplified waves, vast as the dunes themselves.
Zahara turns to the group. "I am calling the falcon to us," she explains, without looking away from the sky. "It may see what we do not. I would have its sight before we step closer to what should not be."
“Come, proud hunter,” she calls, her words resounding with the force of the spell.
Before she can turn, a soft note thrums through the air—a familiar sound, playful and deliberate. Zephirah’s fingers pluck at the strings of her lyre, and an illusion shimmers to life. A small rodent twitches, its movements sharp and enticing, a perfect lure.Zahara nods towards Zepirah and turns skyward once more.
Her voice booms, stretching into the open sky. "Feast, and grant me your wisdom of these lands."
Then, with a final whisper, she traces a sigil over her wrist, the divine glow lingering before fading into her skin. A final divine gift of guidance.
She extends her arm, steady and sure.
The falcon circles once, twice—then folds its wings and dives.
The descent is swift, a blur of feathers and shadow, until talons find purchase on Zahara’s wrist. The bird is lighter than it looks, its grip firm but not painful, its golden eyes sharp and knowing.
Zahara meets its gaze, lips curling into a sly grin. She flicks a glance at Zephirah, nodding in quiet acknowledgment.
“Well played,” she murmurs.
As the journey begins, Satina takes a close look at the small stone shrines. She asks of the group, "What are these? I apologize, but I don't recognize the names." Seeing how small offerings are being made, she wishes to participate as well, but isn't sure which might be most appropriate for her.
Moving along further into the desert, she occasionally rides the camel, but much of the time she walks. She says little, taking in this world of sand and the sun's heat. With her armor the heat is a bit oppressive, but she says nothing of it and simply keeps on going. Regular, small sips of water keep her hydrated, a practice she had learned in times past as a soldier. It all became a bit of a routine that she got lost in, relaxing in its own way.
The appearance of the fabulous city brings her to a halt. "You all see the city too, right? Nothing ought to be there." She then hears the mention a falcon. She glances up, spotting it up high in the sky. She can hardly start to wonder what Zahara will do when she hears Zephirah's music start to play. It's a bit startling when Zahara calls out so loudly. Then surprisingly the falcon is diving down towards them. She may be surprised, but she is quite impressed with the ingenious work of the pair of tieflings.
Also, a little bit concerned with all the noise being made, she does cast a look around to see if any others might be near-by and heard the commotion. (Perception: 16)
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 || Satina Cindermark, Fighter || Meira Dheran, Rogue
Previous Night:
Ophelia sways soundlessly, entranced by Zephirah's music, violet eyes staring upward unfocused, and lips slightly parted as they often are.
Pre-dawn:
Even were she a human (or a tiefling), sleep might prove elusive for one such as Ophelia, yet being an elf, the border between her trance and consciousness is not easily perceived. Four hours sitting alone in the middle of the night is not so different from what she might do while the sun is up. Still, at dawn her new companions find her waiting for them, surprisingly well-prepared to embark with her pack and gear ready, expression oddly subdued.
Leaving Eto:
At the shrines near the city's edge, Ophelia wordlessly, almost absently, offers three gold pieces, one each to three shrines, chosen seemingly at random (subtracted 3gp). Sensing Satina's uncertainty, she touches the woman's shoulder and points at a shrine to Pharasma, though it is unclear whether Ophelia has a reason to do so. The elven woman does not linger to watch whether Satina makes any offering, instead turning to face the desert and raising a thin scarf to cover her own throat and face, save for her violet eyes.
The Desert:
When the vision of the city appears and its scents reach her nostrils, Ophelia stands quietly for a moment. She shakes her head dreamily, apparently concurring with Satina and Zahara's contention that nothing of the sort should exist in that place.
"So tread we travelers, trudging on, astride the sand-strewn sea,
Whisperingly, whisperingly witness, to a where which should not be..."
She glances up to gaze at the falcon before it descends. Turning and turning in a widening gyre... yet, who is the falconer and who the falcon?
Inge(Barbarian2): Krayveneer's After the Fall|Seri(Cleric1/Sorcerer1): Uhtred's Windward Isles|Xarian(Fighter1): NioNSwiper's Tyranny of Dragons
Dyson/Eleo(Cleric4): Vos' Beyond the Veil|Soren(Druid5): Bartjeebus' Ravenloft|Nivi(Rogue4): Raiketsu's CoS|Ophelia(Sorcerer3): Ashen_Age's Risen from the Sands
Joren(Fighter6): NotDrizzt's Simple Request|Toa(Barbarian6/Fighter4): MrWhisker's Dark Lord's Return|Sabetha(Monk3): Bedlymn's Murder Court
Zephirah walked alongside the camels, a thin frown ghosting her lips as she contemplated the oddity of it all. They were her caravan now, or at least their caravan, and somehow that made her feel both liberated and unsettled. She’d guarded plenty of wagons before, especially with Satina’s reliable strength at her side, but never had she truly belonged to one. It was always a matter of shared roads, not shared goals. Now, her own pack rested on the back of a hump-backed beast instead of digging into her shoulders, freeing her gait yet the trek still preventing her from indulging in the constant strum of her lyre. City life was so much more conducive to spontaneous performances, and part of her quietly lamented the sand-swept silence. Still, it struck her how far she’d come from that lone performer who prized her independence above all else. Companions. A purpose. A shared responsibility. The morning sun’s glare felt like a persistent reminder that she had changed more than she ever imagined.
She soon found her musings interrupted by an impossible vision—a gleaming city upon the horizon where none should exist, the thought of an elaborate illusion instantly springing to her mind. At Zahara’s urging, the falcon overhead became their key to unmasking whatever illusion might be at play. Zephirah didn’t hesitate to conjure a skittering rodent with a flick of her fingers, weaving a small, perfect illusion that hopped enticingly along a dune. In that fleeting instant, she flirted with the idea of simply enchanting the falcon outright—seizing its will, binding it to her needs. It would have been so easy: a few arcane words, a gaze set just so, and the bird’s free spirit would be hers to command. Yet, the druid raised her arm, coaxing the bird to land by skill alone—no bribes of magic, no forced obedience. The falcon folded its wings with regal composure, talons finding Zahara’s forearm in a gesture of quiet trust. Zephirah felt an unexpected pang of shame. She paused, unsettled by how swiftly she’d been ready to impose her will upon a creature that was, perhaps, already inclined to offer help.
The memory of her youth under the night hag’s manipulation soured her stomach, reminding her of every time she’d been forced to lure unsuspecting souls. That was a road she’d sworn never to tread again. Let her magic be used on those who attacked or threatened, not on creatures already willing to help. She found herself reevaluating Zahara’s skill with quiet admiration. She, who had spent her life coaxing souls with illusions and persuasive words, recognized a similar subtle mastery in the druid’s approach to forging trust with a wild creature. It was a dimension she hadn’t fully appreciated—one that cast Zahara in a fresh, unexpected light. A faint laugh escaped her lips—part relief, part admiration. “Well done,” she murmured, watching the falcon’s keen eyes flicker between them. Her own silver gaze softened, resolved. Yes, she thought, she would never become like Hekate. She would fight with all the cunning and enchantment at her disposal when enemies rose against them, but she’d not forget that there are differences between those and a willing ally or a helpless victim.
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
The falcon circles once, twice, then folds its wings and dives. Its descent is swift, an arrow of beak and feathers. Then it sweeps its wings wide, the sudden force kicking up a swirl of golden dust. Talons outstretched, it lands heavily on Zahara’s wrist. Its grip is firm and powerful, a reminder of the wild strength held in such a small frame. Its eyes meet Zahara’s, and for a moment, the desert seems to pause, as if listening to secrets only she and the falcon know.
Zahara:
"The sky watches, Mistress, but does not weep. Walk on, or be buried where you stand."
For a moment, Zahara does not speak.
She simply looks at the falcon, drinking in its presence, feeling the weight of it—not just the press of its talons against her wrist, but the sheer power held within its frame. Every muscle poised, every feather sharp against the wind, a creature shaped by the sky itself.
She exhales slowly, respect evident in the careful way she adjusts her arm, ensuring the bird’s perch is steady. Then, finally, she lets her lips part.
“The sky watches, but does not weep,” she murmurs, tasting the words as she would the first sip of water after a long journey. She tilts her head slightly, considering, not just from a human perspective, but from that of the falcon—one who soars above all things, who sees the world in sweeps of movement and shadow, in hunger and instinct.
The sky watches, but does not weep.
A storm brings rain, brings change, brings motion. But the sky now is clear, silent—watching, waiting. That means something.
Then the second half, an unspoken warning curling at the edges of her mind like shifting dunes.
"Walk on, or be buried where you stand."
A flicker of alarm sparks in her golden eyes, bright as sunlight on sand.
The desert buries many things—those too weak to cross it, those who linger where they should not, those who do not belong. But buried where they stand? That was something else entirely.
Zahara lifts her gaze back to the falcon’s piercing gold eyes.
“You speak in winds and sand, hunter.” Her tone is not accusatory, but thoughtful, reverent. “The sky does not weep, yet the ground swallows.” She lets the words settle between them like dust before pressing further.
Zahara contemplates the meaning. “What lies ahead? A place that does not wish to be known? Or a thing that waits for those who step too close?”
Her throat begins to feel dry, but not from the desert air.
“Does the sky see what the ground will claim?”
She does not expect a clear answer. Wild things do not speak in absolutes. But something about the falcon’s words sends a prickle of unease down her spine. She glances toward Zephirah first, then the others, expression grave.
“The falcon has given a warning.” Her voice is quiet, but firm. “We may not be the only ones interested in this city, or worse.”
"You are indeed right, there is no city there, a mirage of the desert most likely." The tiny blue sphinx says in it's scholarly voice to Satina and the others as it briefly comes flying down from above, then flying closer to the city in order to get affirmation of it's suspicion.
"We should go on, he will catch up." Nephthys says to the others, slowly starting to move again. She had seen the two tieflings cooperate to befriend the raptor. While it's warning had been somewhat vague she didn't doubt it would be a valuable ally on the journey ahead. "And well done indeed." She adds with a smile to the pair of resourceful tieflings.
As they had left Eto the tiny blue sphinx had taken his student to pay their respects to the gods with long winded practiced prayers from the holy texts. Thoth would then have talked to Satina about the shrines and their gods for as long as she would endure it.
Later Thoth had taken to the clear sky to spread his blue wings and enjoy the sight flying high above the desert, scouting for threats and other travellers, particularly any who would seem to follow the companions through the desert.
Zephirah raises an eyebrow, listening to the falcon’s portent with faint amusement etched in her silver eyes. “‘The sky does not weep,’” she echoes softly, moving her flute from one hand to the other. “Well, yes—welcome to the desert. We see precious little rain, and the dunes shift like restless cats.” She cants her head toward Zahara, tone growing contemplative. “A warning, yes—but perhaps it’s simply stating what we already know. The sand, especially the dunes, tend to bury what lingers in its path. Perhaps, it does warn that a sandstorm is on the horizon.”
Her fingers skim across the flute, as though pondering a quiet tune during their brief respite from trudging through the sand. “If the bird’s so talkative, maybe we should ask it where it finds water—or if it’s noticed any larger predators skulking around these parts. Or if it is willing to accompany us for a bit in exchange of food and water.” She pauses, exhaling a dry laugh. “That’s probably the sort of insight we can use—and get. No sense in ignoring a creature that might spot trouble while we’re still squinting at the sun.”
Zephirah gives Nephthys a quick nod and swivels back to Zahara. “I agree—we should press on. If a storm is brewing, we’ll want to be well ahead of it or, failing that, find some natural shelter before it roars our way.” She gestures vaguely toward the distant mountains, the shadowy line just beyond the dunes. “Might be better to hole up near some solid rock than to try and outrun a sandstorm on open ground. Say,” her gaze sharpens slightly, “I’ve known druids who sense the weather before it bites. Any chance you can tell if the skies will favor us—or turn on us? Just so we know whether we have to contemplate a storm.”
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
It is not long before you notice Thoth catch up with the tomb raiders, descending in front of the caravan to proclaim. "A mirage, admittedly a particularly impressive one, but none the less just a trick to the eye." He then lets his wings take him up into the sky once more from where he again keeps an eye out for threats and other travellers, particularly any who would seem to follow the caravan through the desert.
Earlier in the journey: Satina had accepted Ophelia's direction towards the shrine of Pharasma and gone and left a gold coin there. She said nothing aloud, but in her head she hoped for safety for all of the group in the desert. She had also listened to the information Thoth offered, though she wasn't sure she would remember all of it.
As the group had stopped to contemplate the city that has appeared, Satina felt surprised to clearly understand what Ophelia had said. 'A where which should not be.' That was exactly what this was. Zahara's words she struggled to follow though, as she seemed to be talking to the falcon?
Thoth's words though rang clear. "If nothing is there, let's go." She is back onto her camel, prepared to move on. "I do still wonder what this might be. How do we all imagine the same thing that did not exist? Is someone setting a trap here? Or is this a common thing in the desert?"
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 || Satina Cindermark, Fighter || Meira Dheran, Rogue
The falcon turns its head west.
Zahara:
“The great winds howl across the earth, Mistress. Westward lies the morning shadow, and so, too, your demise.”
For a heartbeat, Zahara does not move.
The falcon’s words settle into her bones like shifting sand, a whisper of dread curling through her chest.
Her fingers remain still, careful not to tighten as the falcon’s sharp talons press against her wrist. She has heard what a khamsin can do—these storms do not merely pass. They consume.
Her eyes flick westward, narrowing against the brightness of the sun. The air is still, but she knows that means nothing. The desert does not always give warning before it bares its teeth.
She turns her gaze back to the falcon, her voice low, urgent, yet still filled with reverence. “How long before the shadow is upon us, great hunter?” There is no demand in her tone—only the respect due to one who knows the sky better than any mortal traveler.
Her free hand curls slightly at her side. “And where would you take refuge, if you wished to see another dawn?”
Her breath is slow, measured, but her pulse beats quick beneath her skin. The khamsin does not care for travelers, nor does it grant mercy to those caught in its path. If it comes, they must move. Now.
Then, without looking away from the falcon, she speaks—her voice steady, but laced with urgency.
"A khamsin is coming."
Her fingers shift slightly beneath the falcon’s talons, a silent acknowledgment of its warning. Then she lifts her chin, eyes flicking westward once more.
"We have little time."
"Sometimes these mirages are created by a capricious djinn, we can't rule out that this was a deliberate attempt to lure us astray." Nephthys says grimly. She too had lived in the desert for all of her life and was not surprised to hear her mentor's report.
As Zahara warns them a khamsin is coming, the young dark-haired woman contacts her mentor, asking him to look for signs of a storm coming.