"Are you any good at bluffing Dalton? It seems you will be required to do a lot of it in this disguise."
"Lindale brings up a good point. Master Dalton does have a business background, but perhaps, you are the better liar, Lindale."
Dalton casts a wry smile. "Lying is not my specialty, but swindling ... that's another matter. A small grain of truth, a falsehood dodged, the majority of what's wanted unsaid ... a friendly bit of misdirection never hurt my buyers - or my wallet." Dalton casts an impulsive glance at Heff. "As some people well know. BUT! Yes, I should bone up on my dicing face."
"Anytime you need I will lend my skills. As this is the land I once lived in I would volunteer to be your high slave. What I know could be quite valuable."
The halfling transcribes what Bjorkus asks for regarding equipment. She nods appreciatively when he mentions the sling stones. ”As for my role, I could be a scribe, a personal attendant to take care of your wardrobe and grooming, a chef, or an acrobat.” She snaps her fingers and smiles. ”Or your daughter! I could pass myself off as a child no problem. I’ve done it before.”
How probable is it that you’ll be recognized Lindale?” Rilka asks. ”If you are noticed back in town, will that bring any past associations into conflict?”
"It would be an excellent disguise, Lady Rilka, but I fear it may put you in yet greater jeopordy; family will be seen as valuable, and family held hostage against me may serve as a bargaining chip for Targ. I am not familiar with the portion of high to low slaves, so Lindale may make a fair fit."
”That’s a good point about family being used as leverage. At worst, I will pose as a gladiator. I’m sure some Big People find fights with diminutive races hilarious.”
Rilka smiles at Dalton. "It's sweet you call me Lady Rilka. I'm not a Lady though. I don't want people to think I'm trying to be an aristocrat. Feel free to call me by my first name, Featherfeet, or ask around there are plenty of nick-names floating about me."
The final details are hammered out and the council is adjourned. An aasimar and a tiefling who look oddly like brothers walk to Alia's sides, helping her stand and escorting her out. The chambers become crowded as the Aestheric members fill the floor. A hooded figure whispers into Jasper's ear, making him nod and frown before excusing himself. Heff rubs his hands together. "Well, Geoffrey must be informed since there is a war threat." Heff throws a friendly arm around Drosil and leads him out, waving to you all and assuring a final goodbye before your departure. Krokar stays with you and the next hour you walk around the tunnels to collect the various items you have requested for this mission. Finally he walks you back to the closed steel door that leads to your known entrance to the tunnels, then clasps each of your hands. "The next time we meet it shall either be celebrating a mission gone well or back to back on a battlefield. Erastil guide you." He gives a brief, meaningful gaze to Dalton before turning back into the tunnels.
You climb the series of ladders and exit the shed to find Helen splitting logs with an axe. She gives you an acknowledging glance, then points to an official looking parchment. You break the seal and see it is a letter from Geoffrey, saying simply I request your presence before you leave. I shall be at my personal residence.
Dalton chuckles in response to Rilka. "It is not because I thought you were highborn, but because you are better mannered than most of them - more ladylike than they are."
*******
Dalton frowns upon reading the letter. I was hoping to get on with it before I changed my mind! Back above ground, the temperate air would be missed, he knew. "Miss Featherfeet then - you seem to know your way around these parts. Could you lead us back to Geoffrey? I must say I wasn't paying much attention to the streets..." It had been quite the packed few days. Dalton's head was having trouble absorbing it all!
Still fuming over Heff's betrayal, Bjorkus exits the meeting on edge. The bull is somewhat placated by the message from Gabriel. He knew better than to try to sell me out.
The minotaur immediately sets out to meet the colonel.
That should read "If I do return, let my grandmother know that if she wants her grandchildren to stay in regular contact with her, then she should provide the means for us to do so."
******
Toramin grins at his great uncle. "Thank you, great uncle. Every blow it stays will ring with as a hymn to your skill as a smith and honor to the Trealamhgabha."
Bjorkus leads the party to Geoffrey's personal abode. It is a small manor on the west side of town. After a few knocks the door opens and you see an elderly, well dressed servant with a quiet manner about him. "Ah yes, Master Geoffrey is expecting you. Please, come in."
You are shown inside to a modest, comfortable manor. The elderly servant leads you upstairs. "I apologize for the lack of accommodations and refreshments, but Geoffrey seems somewhat upset so I thought it prudent to hasten your meeting." You find yourself at an old oaken door and the servant knocks twice. Inside you hear Geoffrey's voice with an inquisitive grunt, upon with the servant answers "Your visitors sir, I shall give you some privacy." He gives you a last look before slowly descending the stairs.
Footsteps approach the door and open the creaky hinges. Behind it stands Geoffrey, no longer clad in armor and symbols but just a wrinkled noble's outfit. He has a slight hunch to his back that's never been there before and speaks in a voice that lacks its normal strength. "Thank you for coming so quickly, have a seat if you wish." He steps aside and offers you a seat on any of the various chairs and cushions in the room. From what you can tell of the house so far it's kept in good condition but doesn't see much use.
He crosses to a desk and pours some amber liquid into a glass that was already half full. "Would any of you like something to drink?" He takes out some extra glasses and pours anybody a drink that asks. The cool amber is harsher than you would expect, but tastes of quality. Geoffrey sits with his drink and takes a measurable swallow. "Heff told me what was happening. He was vague as to the details, but he mentioned a possible war threat in the east." He looks to each of you with sorrowful eyes. You're not sure if there was a question in there, but he remains silently looking at you all the same.
Bjorkus takes the offered sniffer of brandy and quickly quaffs it. Unfortunately, the strong liquor did little to quench the rage boiling over in his heart.
"I'd be careful what I believe from that sod", the bull snorts. "He was plannin' to sell me out until one of the other Council members called him out on his b%##%*@~. It just makes me wonder what else he's been lyin' bout for his own ends."
Geoffrey sips his drink, not bothered by the first comment. "Heff says many things but he doesn't lie about war. He knows how serious that is." Then his brows raise. "Sell you out? How?"
"He made it sound like the Aestherics weren't willin' to lend me a hand 'cause he was already plannin' to capture the Storm and hand it over to pay off a debt. I was half-ready to walk outta that place until the orc spelled out the truth for me."
Geoffrey stands, and the man seems to grow as the rage boils inside him. "Damn that man and all his damned secrets!" He turns and suddenly whips his glass at the wall, shattering it and leaving an amber stain. He stares at it for a moment, then seems to shrink down again. "Sor-sorry. I've just..." He trails off, then finds a rag and begins picking up the glass.
Bjorkus is somewhat calmed by the solidarity found in the paladin. "Has he burned you before too?"
Geoffrey gives a little ironic chuckle. "Actually he seems more devoted to me than most, his lies have never hurt me, only frustrated me with their complexity. No, that's not it..."
"Then what is it?"
Dalton did not like the sound of this. He'd never been especially apt at reading people. He was good when it came to dice, but otherwise, he was merely average; he didn't possess the otherworldly penetration the Drow did.
If Heff is as good with his tongue as Geoffery leads on, the Council surely trumps him in pecking order. Official or not, Geoffery didn't know what Heff's plans were, so his willingness to continue the association made him subordinate - at least in knowledge. And I'd rather not end up in the pickle Bjorkus did. Dalton empathized a touch with the minotaur; he'd had no real option except to pursue the paths of service, and he'd been manipulated for it. Yet a man of Geoffery's stature had choices, and he was still under Heff in control. Yet his stature is now bent. Why is that?
Geoffrey finishes cleaning up the glass and stands. "My entire career has been dedicated to bringing an end to these senseless wars between civilized nations." He shakes his head with an angry smile. "And then I found myself leading one of the armies in them. Do you even know how that feels? Imagine setting fire to your own ship Bjorkus. Imaging killing your clan members Toramin. Imagine, well I don't know what the bloody hell would upset you Dalton!" He shouts at the plump half-elf. "Ever since I got into the military that has been my only goal. To put an end to the madness and the chaos that twists through the land like a weed. I negotiate and I make treaties and I pacify threats and now I have even ended a war with violence, which still haunts me. Yes they all claim it was justified, but it's all just a load of s*&% to make themselves feel better about killing innocents." He grows pale. "And those civilians, the ones that were cut down in cold blood. I can't even sleep." You suddenly realize from his teetering that he's been drinking long before you arrived here. "I don't deserve to uphold Abadar's justice, not after that. I wonder how I'm even allowed to keep my powers after that." He raises a glowing hand, as if he was going to use his lay on hands. "What kind of sick sense of humor must the gods have to let something like that happen..." He walks over to the stained wall, looking at it sadly. Then his face suddenly contorts with rage. Geoffrey punches the wall, leaving a sizable dent and splitting his knuckles open.
The minotaur snorts and shakes his head. "Life's too short to worry 'bout the mistakes you might'uv made, especially when you were forced to make em. All we can do is hope to get even with the sods that put is in those positions in the first place."
"Is there anything you might know about Targ and Yenrick that Heff left out."
"The gods think differently than we do. What care has Abadar for mercy? Is he not the god of order and civilization? As long as the great project continues and improves is he not happy? What does Sarenrae care for civilization? Is she not the goddess of mercy and forgiveness? As long as least one thinking spirit struggles towards the light is she not happy? The gods have concerns beyond us but their perspectives are constrained by their natures. We share in part all of the gods: our feelings and concerns are much broader in scope because within us all concerns of the spirit are made manifest. Our needs and complaints are in great multitude. Do not look to the gods for a unified plan for such things are found in us. You carry Abadar's justice because you believe it adds to the luster of the world and makes the many strong. Sir Geoffrey, you can carry that mantle as long as you are true to it and believe it has value. Perfection has never been a standard, but only the goal."
As Toramin tries to give Geoffrey comfort however cold it might be, he is reminded again of menntun and Alia the Wise. [b]"But, it is good that you share your burdens. By speaking them your heart will not fester. We may never see each other again. Find someone you trust to tell your ills; it would be a shame to lose your light to despair.
Geoffrey listens to you both silently, staring down at his bleeding knuckles. As the room grows quiet he sits for a moment longer, than looks up at Toramin. "I am no longer sure that Abadar's justice is so just."
Bjorkus shrugs. "Then help those you can. Sittin' around feeling sorry for yourselfi isn't making a difference for anyone."
Toramin nods his head. "Doubt comes to us all in time. Do you doubt Abadar or do you doubt yourself? If it is self-doubt, then it is self-serving. Your responsibilities are vast because your capacities are vast. It is right to think of how you can improve and it is right to grieve for what has been lost. It is wrong to let that grief cripple you. It is wrong to make their suffering yours. The terrible things that happened to them aren't about you. Their lives and deaths are not for you. Perhaps Abadar is not the god you wish to serve. Perhaps you wish to carry the trust of another or to lay down the trust entirely. It is your life. Those are your choices. But, it is prideful and unworthy of you to pretend that you are solely responsible for those deaths are to devalue the good of what you have done in the course of your service."
Surprise erupts on Rilka’s face which floods with concern as Geoffrey throws the glass against the wall and begins to relay his turmoil with the recent war. She doesn’t know where to begin to talk about religion or the god Adabar with a paladin. Nodding along, she encourages the conversation between Bjorkus, Toramin, and Geoffrey. Rilka scans the room’s decorations while pondering Andril history and tales of paladins dealing with war, hoping for something relevant. Something to ease his suffering and propel him towards finding acceptance for his actions or the means for healing his tortured soul.
"Geoffrey," begins Dalton, not wanting to sound overly formal in response to the man's emotion, "There is truth both in Toramin's verbosity and Bjorkus's crudity: You've done what you could. You are not a god, so do not expect godly actions of yourself. You've done more than any man could expect to for your cause. That tells me you're a good fellow, trustworthy - a heart of gold that would shine brighter than any ring I could craft. Toramin is right to remind you the gods have their own realms of concern. Abadar's is progress, to further civilization. Both you and I respect him - you moreso than myself - but we have more than that singular purpose. If you truly care about the goodness of what you are doing, you will need compassion to pair with that justice. That's what Bjorkus was telling you. Help people instead of worrying about the golden god's idea of justice alone. Your own perspective matters too."
As he talks, Dalton walks about and picks up the fragments of the glass he can see, some larger few with his hand carefully, others with his telekinesis. He then mends them together into a cup of a slightly less voluminous capacity (as he surely missed some fragments. He then hands it back to Geoffery as a case-in-point and places a hand on his shoulder. "Justice is sometimes destructive if followed alone; sometimes helping people by fixing problems is a better solution." The transmuter knew firsthand the vindictiveness that came with living a life of resenting those causing inequity. But he also knew holding to that bitterness made for a lonely, unfulfilled existence - without accomplishing much. Perhaps he can find that satisfaction where I have failed.
There is still both sorrow and anger in Geoffrey's features, but none of it is directed at any of you. As Toramin mentions all of his responsibilities he takes out a large journal and leafs through it. "Look at this. I've missed three appointments in the hour I've wasted here. And I don't even care." He listens to the rest in silence, his face a mask. "I wish it were that simple. Ha, listen to me, saying changing a paladin's faith is the easy way. Your words ring wise, and yours touches my heart Dalton." He leans back against the pole of his bed. "Imagine how my position in Theris and Andril would be viewed if I gave up Abadar as my guide. Even if I managed to keep my paladin-hood the people would see me a traitor to my own country." Despite his pessimism the talk of political issues as opposed to moral ones seem to weigh easier on his mind. "Toramin, how would you feel it if one of your elders renounced Torag in favor of Erastil?" He says it not with sarcasm or as a comparison, but as an honest question.
"I wouldn't care. It's not my place to question the relation any have with the gods, particularly an elder. Not all elders worship Torag -- there are other gods beyond the Father of Creation, in the voices of many wisdom can be found. Elders offer insight, perspective, leadership, wisdom; these are their greatest gifts, and for them they need no magic. You are more than a god-blessed sword arm."
"Yes, what would your people think? Here we come to the true crux of the matter. You care too much what others think about you. You hang too carefully on the image you see reflected in their eyes. You hear them call you 'hero' and 'leader of men', but you, in your heart, see how you fail some perfect standard of both. You think too much of yourself. These expectations wear at you both the ones you place on yourself and the one's you believe others project upon you. It is vanity and folly, and you can be better than both. Care less of the image and failures of being a hero, and simply try to be a good man. Shouldn't our goal as paladins be improvement and not perfection? There are other ways to improve the good than being a leader or a commander."
The conversation was moving into more of the theological realm now - not Dalton's taste. I'm happy to give the man advice, but it's not the time to debate thought against faith. And in the company of the dwarf, doubly-so. Though he is well-read, it seems.
While Geoffrey and Toramin converse, Dalton walks over to Bjorkus. "I've been studying up on some ways to bend force around one's body to bolster his strength. For a decent time - surely long enough for a skirmish we might encounter in our travels - it would be possible to give you an edge in a fight. Especially if we're going to get involved with this slaver's gladiators or whatnot, we must be sure you come out on top. If you can think of a signal for me, I'll make sure to cast the spell on you after."
Bjorkus snorts and nods as he listens to Dalton's explanation. Magic was something that'd always been intuitive, like breathing or rutting. Who studies breathing? In any case, the chubby elf seemed to know his way around magic well enough and the minotaur wasn't going to argue with him.
"I can handle myself", the bull rumbles as he cracks the knuckles on his huge hairy mitts. "But I'll keep that in mind. If this whole thing goes to s%%@ and I need an edge, I'll give you a signal."
Lindale sits in silence as the others try to help Geoffrey. He didn't have anything that he thought could help the man. This man was the best at what he did, or so he had heard. Traitor. Hero. Beggar. He didn't see the difference when everything you owned was lost. Only what you did counted. And who remembered it. "Afraid?"
Geoffrey sits, almost as if Toramin's words have struck him. He mouths silently, once, You're right. He looks up, and for the first time today you see a genuine smile cross his face. "You're right. Damn the politics of it and damn how anybody sees me." He stands and paces with more energy than before and with a strait back. "I'll keep my position if they let me hold it, but regardless of where I end up I shall work towards my goals as an honest man without fear of judgement." He stops, gazing at a picture of Abadar on the wall. "Sometimes the people need somebody who does what is needed, not what is popular or liked." He gives the picture one last look before gently removing it from the wall and setting it face down on his desk. "Thank you for the wisdom Toramin. Thank you for the guidance Dalton." He laughs. "And thank you for lighting a fire under my ass Bjorkus." He pushes the wave bangs out of his face. "Afraid? Yes I would say I am. But my mentor taught me that you cannot have courage without fear, so I am ready to meet this head on."
With new life in him Geoffrey calls for his servant, then begins rapidly writing and crossing things out in his journal. He shakes his head, stopping and throwing the journal down before walking over to shake each of your hands. "Thank you. I have a lot to do and I'm sure you do as well so I'll bid you farewell. Best of luck and may Ab-may you be guided." He begins talking to his servant about cancelling appointments and making new ones.
”I’d just add, you have changed. Is it the paladinhood that no longer appeals to you or the worship of Adabar? Either way may you be guided as well. Have courage,” Rilka says as she offers her hand to Geoffrey.
Once outside, Rilka looks up at the sky and the others. ”Anyone want a home cooked meal? I’m going to visit my family. They aren’t very formal affairs. Cousins running underfoot. Darts. Blindfolded lock-picking. Juggling. Second-story games. Pretty standard fare for a going away party. No worries if you'd rather skip it,” she finishes with a smile.
"That sounds lovely, Mistress Featherfeet, but I must discharge my own familial obligations."
Toramin parts from the group with a bow.
Bjorkus shrugs. "If you think yer folks can fill me up, I wouldn't mind a hot meal."
"As much as I hate to turn down a good meal, Miss Rilka, I must also decline; odds and ends must be gathered to make our ruse authentic on my end. I'll have to stop by my shop and a few vendors. Perhaps we can rondevous before departing?"
Early the next morning the party meets at The Golden Oak, where Heff and Krokar are sitting and having breakfast. Krokar turns at the sound of the door opening and stands to greet you. "Mornin'. Sorry Heff isn't here, he pulled in a favor and asked me to do it. Seemed distracted. Anyways, got the last of those supplies you asked for." He takes out the pathfinder pouch, placing it on the table. "Everything else that I didn't get the other day is in there. Get some breakfast and we'll head out. Probably the last hot meal you'll have in a few weeks." Large, hot breakfasts are ordered and you spend the next thirty minutes eating and listening to one of Krokar's stories about busting up a drug ring. He laughs as he talks about trying to tie up a dwarf who was on so many drugs he thought he was a parrot and kept squawking at all the Aestheric agents trying to restrain him.
Krokar leads you out the main gates of the city to where there is two large horse-drawn carriages. You spend the next few days riding in the carriage or on horseback, wherever you are more comfortable. Krokar likes to exchange old stories and is lively conversation during the trip, also offering to spar in the mornings to anybody interested. Whoever accepts his offer finds him to be brutal and ruthless with a dire flail made of black metal, but he seems to be more interested in performing maneuvers and doesn't leave too many bruises. He also likes to offer tips and help improve others styles. The two wagon drivers are Len and Roy, Len a short round man with a beard that would impress a dwarf and Roy a tall lanky man with bright red hair. They appear to be old friends and spend the nights around the fire performing songs, Len singing and Roy playing a harmonica. All in all, it's an enjoyable road trip.
As the days pass the cold nip of autumn gives way to a hot, dry breeze that seems constant and endless. The ground becomes hard and cracked and vegetation is sparse. The ground is flat and open, allowing you to see for miles in every direction, including the endless brown horizon of Yenrick ahead. The wagons roll right to the border where you see a small cottage with an adjacent stable and dozens of horses grazing the sparse grass in a fenced in area.
The wagons come to a halt in front of the cottage and a moment later the door opens. An old man with a salt and pepper beard comes out, limping on a cane. He peers suspiciously at all of you, his other hand resting on a longsword at his waist and his jaw working a bit of chewing tobacco. He spits on the parched ground, eyes still searching the wagons. "Don't see any blonde locks. Where's Heff?" Krokar jumps down from his horse and walks over, almost purposely keeping his hand away from the weapons at his belt. He offers a rolled piece of parchment to the old man. "Sorry Drelsh, Heff ended up having other plans. He apologizes and sends me in his stead." He takes off a pouch of coins and drops it in the mans hand. "I believe he added a bit for the trouble."
Drelsh pockets the gold, opening the parchment and scanning it quickly before grunting. "Fair enough. Come along than." He shuts the front door and waves for you to follow him to the stables. Inside there are roughly 40 horses lined up. "These horses are fit for desert travel, used to the heat and walking through the sand. Each comes fully equipped for riding and includes saddlebags. Take your pick. Plus a little invention of my own." He takes an odd looking horseshoe out of his pocket and tosses it to Toramin. "Made it myself. Helps them keep their traction in the sand. Still not as fast as on normal ground, but they'll go farther and be less tired." He has a small smile; he seems immensely proud of the little invention. "Horses are combat trained, but don't expect them to be fearless. They'll hold their own and listen to commands if steel is drawn. But if you guys run into one of the those desert monsters they could spook."
Once everything is set Krokar approaches you. "So, now I bid you a fond farewell. Erastil guide and watch over you." He clasps each one of your hands firmly, then grabs Len and Roy and heads out. The party spends the rest of the daylight hours resting in preparation of adjusting their sleep schedule for the desert. Drelsh makes for much poorer company than the three that just left; it appears he has been living with nobody but his horses for many years. He utters about ten words the entire day, and most of them are to the horses. But the beds are moderately comfortable and the food surprisingly good. As the sun sets you all wake to see your horses equipped and ready to ride out. Drelsh stands next to them, giving them a proud look. "Take care of 'em. They're fine creatures."
Bjorkus is surprised when Krokar greets the party but not disappointed. The last thing he wanted to do was spend his last few days preparing for the mission ahead with a snake like him. After the orc produces the Pathfinder pouch, the minotaur watches carefully where the drow tucks it away. Pathfinder Pouch is a silly name. They should just call it what it is – a smuggler’s pouch.
During the short trek across the countryside, Bjorkus takes up Krokar on his offer to spar in the mornings. The minotaur didn’t think he necessarily needed the practice, but the exercise helped him work out the frustration he felt over Heff’s betrayal and whatever subconscious nervous energy he felt for the task ahead. He eventually learns a healthy respect for Krokar’s flail, even if it did look like a woman’s weapon.
When the party reaches the edge of Yenrick and stops at the waystation, Bjorkus initially balks at the situation. He was a bull that belonged in the sea with the deck of a ship beneath his hooves. The idea of riding a beast for transport always seemed absurd to him and he hadn’t seen many horses that could bear his hulking frame comfortably. Eventually he notices a beast that towers over the rest. At least three hands taller than the next biggest and with a heavy muscular build, it’s obvious this horse was more of a draft animal than traveling palfrey.
”I’ll take that one”, the minotaur rumbles.
Toramin knows nothing of horses but he picks the one that looks like it has the lowest center of gravity. I'd rather walk, but this trip isn't about my comfort.
Dalton doesn't impose on their esteemed host, but he bids Krokar a hearty farewell as he leaves. Friendlier than the others. And more honest.
"This one seems gentle. At my age, you don't go for a steed that seems to like galloping for the fun of it." Dalton selects a horse mild of color and temperament. "Mister Drelsh, have you named them?"
Drelsh pulls the largest, the squattest, and the gentlest horse from the line. "Used to, but now I have too many to remember them all."
[ooc]I’d like to retcon a little about the dinner, selling her short sword, and acquiring some scrolls. To learn Endure Elements from the scroll a Spellcraft check (DC 16) is necessary.
Rilka ensconces herself in a corner of the cottage and gets to work with her formulae book and scrolls. At the end of the first hour, she giggles in satisfaction and joy. ”Yes! One down.” She tosses the blank scroll over her shoulder and reaches for a different scroll from her smile pile.
”Arggggh!” she grumbles, scribbling out her pencil scrawls. She rubs her forehead and smooths out the scroll. Closing her eyes for a moment, she takes some calming breaths and then starts her alchemical work again.
Facing failure again, she rolls up the scroll and chooses another one at random. The halfling walks around the room, does a handstand, juggles the scrolls. Once she feels relaxed, she unrolls the new scroll and smiles in delight. Longshot. Fitting for her last attempt before needing to take a nap. She turns the page in her formulae book, preserving the previous page for ant haul and begins to translate the spell into a formula.
She shakes her head in defeat. She knows she is close. Perhaps a slight error in math. For now though, that is all the time she has for study. Luckily she learned the most important formula for the upcoming travels.
Lindale packs his regular armour for when they reached their destination and purchases himself some hide armour with his hot weather outfit.
When he sees Heff will not be accompanying them he smirks and looks to Bjorkus. Clearly Heff did not want to be here, whatever excuse he may have had for not being there.
He picks a lighter coloured horse for the travelling. To blend in with the surroundings.
Once everybody is saddled up and prepared to go, Drelsh walks off with nothing but a backward wave. The party turns to face the massive stretch of sand before them, then gently taps their horses forward. The horses have a quick pace until they take their first steps in the sand, where they slow down slightly but press on with the help of their special horseshoes.
The first stretch is cool due to the hour, but unnerving. Shadows flicker from around small hills of sand and every rock, cactus, and crack in the ground seems the sense the presence of the outsiders. The night is dead still, the only sounds in the world are that which you make.
Night gives way to day and with it comes the heat. The oppressive, choking, relentless heat. You can't help but notice the lack of a breeze...and you notice it every few seconds as the sun beats down in the deserted frying pan that is the desert. By the time you come to rest as the sun is high in the sky, several party members spot a large vertical bank of sand that is casting shade at this time of day. Bjorkus's horse is struggling by the time you stop, apparently unaccustomed to such weight. Dalton and Lindale are pouring with sweat and aren't dealing with the heat well. Camp is set up in the slightly less burning heat of the shade and watches are arranged.