Lucan examines his food and finds nothing suspicious. 

Once the party is ready to head to the beach

The beach, just an hour past dawn, glows with a quiet warmth. The first light of day has taken hold, casting long, honeyed shadows across the sand. The sharp chill of night has lifted, but the heat of the day hasn’t yet arrived. It’s a moment suspended—fresh, clear, and untouched.

The sand feels cool underfoot, firm where the tide has receded, loose and dry higher up. Tiny dimples and ridges left by last night’s wind still cling to the surface in places where no foot has passed. Closer to the water, the beach glistens—dark, smooth, and reflective—like wet parchment kissed by light.

Waves roll in with steady grace. Each one breaks with a low, resonant rumble, spilling white foam that reaches just a little farther before sliding back. The sea is active but not urgent, its motion steady, like breathing.

Above, the sky has shifted from dawn’s rose to a pale, growing blue, streaked with high, thin clouds catching traces of gold. The sun hangs low but confident, glinting on every damp surface, turning pebbles and shells into scattered sparks.

Wind moves through gently now—not the desert’s harsh gusts, but a coastal breeze, salt-laced and cool, fluttering the few hardy grasses growing in clumps at the edge of the dunes. A pair of seabirds skim the water’s surface, their wings catching the light. Farther down the beach, the faint prints of a crab or fox trail like a secret map between rock pools.

Salty

Salty breathes in deeply, sighing softly as the scent of the ocean breeze settles into his very being.  He stops near a rock, sitting for a moment to remove his boots.  His gaze seems fixed on the horizon, lost in the gorgeous hues of pink and orange that herald the rising sun.  Steadily he walked, feeling the sand transition beneath his feet, becoming damp and more firm as he neared the surf.  His arms raised, open to the sea, as he stepped into the edge of the waves.  His words with Valkur were his own, his prayer a silent conversation, mostly one sided, with the Son of the Sea.  When the sun began to peek over the horizon he turned, smiling serenely, and returned to retrieve his boots.  

"Valkur's fer smilin' on us this day, don't ye doubt," he said as he knocked sand off his feet and put his boots back on.

Lucan calls on his deity, Erevan Ilesere, trickster god in silent prayer.  "Give me your blessing through the day my god so that I may be the trickster needed to help my friends and thwart our enemies."

"My friends let us continue our plans for the day."

With minimal concerns of thugs about Lucan will wait to cast his Mage Armor for the day.  He does feel naked without it though and somewhat hyper alert.

Salty

"I'm fer thinkin' yon spice vendin' lady what falled on bad luck's a good spot fer startin'.  Thinks I heared her tents fer bein' white 'n red 'n hard fer missin'."

Krakan finishes the last of his stretches, arching his body toward the sun, finishing with a couple of quick jabs and kicks as he stretches out his body.  He bows his head and forms his ready posture, taking one last deep breath, then looks up at Salty.  “Then let’s go.  I think that we need to increase the speed of our investigation.  Otherwise, we are sure to be targeted again.  May happen anyway.  But I think that the merchant is a great place to start.”  

The party heads to the Bazaar and through the sea of tents you see the spice merchant’s shop nestled under a red-and-white striped awning that billowed softly in the warm breeze. Its walls were fashioned from sunbaked adobe bricks, and warm ochre blocks bound with mud plaster—giving the structure a living, earthen warmth. Palm-wood beams supported the fabric roof, their rough grain catching the light as it filtered through the canopy and danced across woven rugs on the packed-earth floor.

Along the curved adobe wall, low wooden shelves held a few lonely jars and baskets spaced far apart. Where once vibrant clouds of turmeric, caraway, and mint might have nestled cheek by jowl, now only empty nooks and drab lulls of negative space remained. A set of brass scales, polished to a pale glow, stood ready on a low counter carved from a single palm trunk, its sides etched with simple geometric patterns.

A woman moved among the goods with the calm precision of a seasoned trader. Her linen robe, dyed a muted amber, brushed the ground as she reached for a small pouch of rose-dust to show a customer. Dark curls escaped her headscarf, framing eyes that flickered with both kindness and steel. There along her temple a faint scar that has not quite healed yet can be seen.

Salty

Salty examines the bare spots on the shelves.  How different from Malik's fancy writing friend's shelves that were full but for one spot the orc thought.  When the woman finished with the customer Salty approaches her with a friendly smile.   "Can't help but fer seein' lots o' room on yon shelves.  Me 'n me mates hear'd a bit o' bandit yammerin' whats been plague'n ye.  I'm fer thinkin' me boys er fer gettin' yerself 'n yer goods through safe.  If ye wants fer talkin' on it I'm fer makin' sure no wrong ears 'er fer listinin'."  He says the last bit quietly if any other customers are in the shop.

She looks at Salty after helping her last customer and lets out a small laugh "I have heard that before. What makes you different from my last guards?" 

She says the words guard with derision and if she were not more mannered, she would spit right now. 

Salty

Salty glances around, making sure there are no folks lingering about before saying, "Are yer competitions gettin' bandit'd same as you?  'N fer answerin' yer question, me 'n me mates 'er a bit more den guards, and the better fer yerself dat is.  If'n yer fer tellin' us 'bout yon attack, might be we're fer givin' a bit o' aid."