Kelmarane. For many years, this village in northeast Katapesh was at the southern end of a prosperous trade route with Osirion. The village flourished for it, always bustling with activity, and providing the rest of the nation with exotic commodities. Twenty years ago however, that all abruptly came to an end. The resources stopped flowing under mysterious circumstances, and it soon seemed apparent that the settlement’s citizens had vanished entirely. Kelmarane had been abandoned, and no one knew why. The Pactmasters of Katapesh seemed content to leave it that way. But in the absence of its former inhabitants, just two years ago, new residents took hold of the village – the Kulldis, a tribe of gnolls in the service of the notorious Carrion King.
The decision was delayed, but the Pactmasters eventually made their intent clear – they wanted Kelmarane back, by any means necessary. The word soon spread that an expedition was being mounted to liberate the village from its gnoll occupants. On the behalf this expedition’s leader – a merchant princess by the name of Almah – a man named Garavel had traveled all throughout Katapesh, in search of capable warriors. With what limited time and resources he possessed, he recruited those he could.
Whether for faith, family, freedom or fortune, you chose to sign onto Garavel’s caravan. Regardless of your reasons for joining, he had assessed you all with the same stony gaze. Your skills were untested, but he had little in the way of choice. His employer was growing desperate, and the date on which to start the mission was already set. He offered little in the way of elaboration on your mission, saying that you would have to speak to Almah directly.
More than a week has passed since you first left the markets of Solku by camelback, riding into the northern scrublands. The brutal heat and uncooperative terrain are made bearable only by the beasts of burden that you were lent. As you traveled onward, the immense, gray silhouette of Pale Mountain grew ever larger, looming over the horizon.
On your eighth day of travel, as the sun moves ever closer to setting, Garavel does not stop the caravan to set up camp as he had on the previous days.
“We push onward,” he announces to the five of you from atop his camel, “We will reach the Sultan’s Claw by nightfall.” Without another word the no-nonsense majordomo moves on, approaching the next rise.
The slight bodied figure, with red hair and black eyes sat astride his camel. During the last several days of the journey, he has shown himself to be a devout, but not overly preachy warrior of Sarenrae.
"Mayhap you can explain to us the significance of the Sultan's Claw, and I know we've gone over this, but please indulge me, how many gnolls do we expect to find?"
Sitting atop a camel side saddle Sami's looks seem to stick out in juxtaposition of the barren and dead desert. A young girl, looking about sixteen or seventeen by human standards she has full blue skin and long lush green hair. For clothes she wears rather appropriate clothes for the heat, though notably she wears a dress in spite of the current traveling conditions. Finally on her face sits a discoloration in the shape of a butterfly only calling even more attention to her bright expression.
Probably one of the more social members of the Garavel's troop Sami has worked rather hard to make herself known over the past few days of travel. Constantly engaging in conversation and social activity, participating in drinks and games, and lastly spreading tells of her travels the Samsaran has made her presence rather unavoidable at the camp. More then once she had jumped into conversations she had more then likely not been welcome, yet somehow she always came out on positive terms with those around her. Having made such a reputation for herself the social addict wasn't about to miss another chance at her normal activity.
Mushing her camel onwards the young warrior looks over to the two men with a delightful gaze.
"What's wrong? Scared of a few gnolls?"
Sami interjects into the conversation with a hint of Elvish accent in her speech. Reaching back onto her camel she pulls out of her two starknives that she carries with her.
"Don't worry if things get rough I will protect you."
Flexing her arms at first sight of the girl's muscles her words seem to be somewhat unbelievable.
Thurrios let's out a guttural laugh, "I am comforted at the thought Sami."
Khatijah thought that riding on a camel would be easy and relaxing. She wouldn't have to walk and she could leave the heavy armor and sword that were "hers" on the beast and not have to worry about lugging them around everywhere.
No one had bothered to tell her that riding for long periods was a painful experience, and that first day had her so sore she needed help getting down, like a child. Now she just ached. Aches she could deal with. Being in so much pain she was helpless wasn't something she did gracefully, and after that first night most of the others had left her alone.
Except the strange girl named Sami. Khatijah rode behind her, and looked her over like a warrior might a potentially worthy opponent. The blue-skinned, green-haired girl didn't look all that strong, but then again neither did she.
"Better to protect yourself. Being a shield is a good way to wind up dead." the young Keleshite girl tells Sami, the first thing she'd said since that morning after getting a face full of sand as a wake up call.
Sami smiled brightly at Thurrios's response. She got the impression he was a pretty agreeable man. Turning back around she began to fasten her starknife back into place as she heard Khatijah speak up. After listening to the woman's words she gave a wry smile and responded.
"Excuse me if I get a bit preachy here, but I would like to respectfully disagree. In one of my past lives I was a member of a team of field medics. No magic or anything, but we did our best to save the lives of our comrades. One day I asked my commanding officer why we patched wounds instead of fought on the front line. He quoted a poem to me which went something along the lines of this.
No man is an island, entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Casmaron is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manor of thine own or of thine friend's were. Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind. Therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.
I enjoy my freedom and you should as well. Desna guides us onwards to experience our lives as we see fit. But if I see a life that I can save then I know where her winds guide me. For if I don't step forward then I will be left with the sounds of the bells resounding through my ears."
As Sami finished her speech she caught herself perhaps diminishing the mood more than she should have. Having lost herself temporarily in thought she snapped back returning to her usual demeanor. Putting on a bright smile she spoke up once again.
"Sorry for that I guess I just got caught up in the moment a bit too much there. Why don't we get back to talking about killing us some gnolls?"
Garavel had proven to be a man of few words throughout your travel, usually speaking only when directly spoken to. With his lantern jaw, short black hair and well-trimmed beard, the man might have passed as attractive if he would just smile once in a while. Instead his face has remained a placid mask, devoid of emotion. Perhaps that is why he looks disappointed all the time. Dressed in a keffiyeh and other simple clothing well-suited for the hot weather, nothing really stands about him, save for the expensive-looking blade that he has never once during your time with him removed from his belt.
Within the folds of Garavel's keffiyeh, you have caught glimpses of a strange sight - a metal bolt seems to be protruding from the left side of the man's head.
"Landmarks are few and far between in the scrublands," Garavel explains without looking to Thurrios, "The Sultan's Claw is near enough to Kelmarane to act as a convenient rendezvous point, without attracting the attention of our quarry. Speaking of which, we cannot be certain of their exact numbers just yet. If we are dealing with just one tribe as the reports say, we can hope for few rather than many."
Among the members of the caravan is a slight young girl. Her eyes turned downwards as she follows towards the back. Her jet black hair flows straight down past her neck and her eyes match her hair. She wears simple linen clothes with her midriff bare and a long skirt that flows around her legs. Her arms show several small scars from previous lashings and her neck still bears a simple steel collar.
Marossa remains silent as she listens to all the conversations around her. Giving up for a moment at trying to follow the quick talking blue woman, she pulls out an ink pen and piece of parchment from the backpack hanging from her borrowed mount and begins to write on the page with the quiet scratching of her quill on the parchment easing her nervousness for a few moments. Marossa begins to hum softly as her thoughts turn towards her current situation and she begins to write a few words about it.
A lilting voice escaping her pale lips matching the scratches she makes to the parchment.
The desert valley with its timeless song
An ancient wind of hope
Many spirits wait until we are strong
Giving us time to cope.
Thurrios listens to the voices, "beautiful songs ladies. Your words bring life to an otherwise arid landscape and the miles seem to wilt away."
"What freedom?" Khatijah asks Sami, "I still wear a slave's chains."
She pulls the folds of her scarf up to reveal the iron collar around her neck, and show the iron bands on her wrists. When the strange woman mentions killing gnolls, Khatijah just shakes her head. Sami reminder her entirely too much of those freemen that entered the pits to win some coin. She'd seen one gnoll tear three such men apart, and that had made her realize that she had been lucky beyond all reason to have gutted and killed the one she had faced without a scratch.
Before she can say anything, a soft, sing-song voice comes quietly from the back of the line. Marossa, yes, that was the name. Another slave trying to earn her freedom, but Khatijah wasn't sure if the Pactmasters would ever grant that promise. She was almost certain they'd both die slaves.
Then there was Thurrios. He was almost as strange as Sami. He prayed to the sun everyday and always tried to find the good in anything, and anyone. He was-- polite. Yes that was the word. Charming, perhaps, but it seemed to be just simple courtesy. What had he more worried were the tales he told of forgiveness. Defeated opponents often sought to kill you the next time if you let them live.
What a strange sight we must be. I wonder if the Pactmasters actually expect us to accomplish anything. she thought.
Khasra rides in silence, his face emotionless during their trip. He prefers to hear what the desert has to say, which is why he is quiet. His efforts were doing well enough when people started talking nonstop.
So far they were unmolested during their trip. He would remain alert to any threat should the voices attract attention.
"A bolt? This one bears further watching."
[dice=Perception]1d20+8
Thurrios listens to the voices, "beautiful songs ladies. Your words bring life to an otherwise arid landscape and the miles seem to wilt away."
"Arid? You know not where to look. The desert is full of live giving water if you but ask for it." he says with irritably with a sideways glance at the man.
And then of course there was Khasra. There was something off about that one. The hatred, fury, and gluttony of the gnolls she understood. This cold, brutally cold, man she didn't. She shivered and tried not to think about the the chill she felt every time she heard him speak, and returned wondering how it was she was still aching all over from not doing anything.
Sami quieted at Khatijah's words. She wasn't quite sure she had an answer. Slavery to her was such a foreign concept, yet in all rights she was in some ways a slave herself. Not to a single man, but to all of those who had such great expectations of her.
"My apologies. May Desna bring your liberation."
As the girl spoke she wondered if her words were inappropriate for the portion of the world where she was. Yet at the same time she couldn't help but feel a cringe in her heart. Shouldn't all people be allowed to chose their own fate? Why would Desna allow such suffering to continue? She couldn't be sure, but a quiet song in her ears broke the thought.
"A beautiful song indeed."
Sami spoke in response to Thurrios's comment. Though when Khasra spoke up she couldn't help, but give retort.
"He was but making a comment on the beauty of Marossa's voice. Indeed her voice is only matched by her astounding looks. I would suggest you apologize for inadvertently insulting either. Women don't take kindly to such things."
"My life has no room for your ways, nor do I care when someone lets their feelings get hurt over every little thing. The desert is harsh, and so am I. There is no place in my life for flamboyant frailties." Khasra says evenly. This time he shows no expression on his face, irritated or otherwise.
He leaves the implication of what his words mean hanging in the air.
Khatijah thinks over what Khasra said before turning around and looking at the half-elf, trying not to shiver as she meets his gaze.
"Flamboyant frailties? What are those?" she asks innocently.
"The Dawnflower herself teaches that redemption is offered to all but those that follow the Roughbeast. It matters not to what station one was born, or how high or low they rise or fall. Seek out her light, and you will be blessed by it and find redemption. Work hard, and you shall be rewarded. You two who wear the shackles of your status, can be redemmed within that caste, or you can rise up from it, and be redeemed in another, but She will be there for you in either case."
Thurrios looks at Khasra, "and as for you. I understand the harshness of the desert as well as most, but I have also seen how beautiful it can be right after the rain. When everything blooms briefly, and brings forth flowers which are otherwise foreign to the environment. I suspect that you are like the cactus. Tall, haughty, prickly in the heat of the high desert, but when properly watered they blossom in a glorious display. You have but to be properly watered. And when you do, Sarenrae will celebrate your glory as well."
Marossa keeps her eyes downcast towards the sands, the bangs of her straight hair falling over her face as she whispers "I didn't mean to cause more strife."
Seeing more and more words getting spun around, Marossa quickly pipes up in a squeaky voice completely different from her singing, "I... I was not insulted, I just um..."
Marossa's voice falls silent mid sentence as she squeezes her parchment tightly in her hands, fearing the attention she might be drawing to herself. Quickly Marossa finishes her line of thought with "I just hope everyone enjoyed the song."
"I did." he says flatly.
"Well, it was easier to listen to than any other song I've heard. Most of the guys that were in the pits with me weren't exactly the best singers." Khatijah says with a smile, glad to just have something to take her mind off of riding.
Khasra, though, is starting to worry her. Flat and emotionless are not qualities she is familiar with, and that was unnerving in itself.
"I very much enjoyed the song!"
As the conversation continues Sami readies herself to continue her assault of words on Khasra only to be stopped by everyone else pitching in. Everything seemed to be working itself and as such her words became less and less necessary. A bit disappointed she turns a wide smile back over Marossa as everyone compliments her singing. Riding her camel next to the girl's she reaches an arm over around her shoulder. She wasn't going to miss out on a chance to have a good time.
"Aye it was so good why don't you sing us another tell? I'll sing with you this time if you'd like!"
Letting out some encouraging words the Samsaran's face fills bright with excitement. Almost as that of a small child begging her parents for a tell. Removing her arm from Marossa Sami reaches into her camel's saddle bags and pulls out a small water skin. Holding out her arm towards the girl she once again speaks up.
"There's not much left, but if you sing well I'll let you have some of my wine."
For the moment, Khasra seemed oblivious to the words of Thurrios. As they continue on Khasra lapses into silence. His face continues to be expressionless.
Marossa shakes her head towards Sami, "I couldn't part you from your wine Mistress but I can play the flute as well, and longer than this heat would allow me to sing." Marossa finds herself strangely comfortable speaking out to the blue woman as she reaches down into her back again and pulls her flute out, the well polished wood rising up to her lips as she begins playing on the instrument. The song from her flute flowing along the caravan's trail.
Despite Garavel’s assessment, the next few miles prove particularly difficult to traverse, on account of a multitude of large, rolling hills. By the time that the distant Sultan’s Claw finally comes into view, the sky has already dimmed considerably. Even from afar, the meaning of the name is all too clear. The massive tree’s five craggy, leafless branches stretch skyward, curving in on themselves like an empty grasp. Certainly, it more closely resembled a skeletal talon than it did any living thing of wood. Garavel pauses briefly to wordlessly acknowledge your destination, before moving onward.
Indeed, night has already fallen by the time your caravan reaches the last rise. Against the darkened sky however, you notice an ominous display - a pulsating, orange glow, radiating from somewhere beyond the hill. Without a moment’s hesitation, Garavel has his camel break out into a gallop, moving to quickly climb the steep hill. He looks over his shoulder for only a brief moment, beckoning the rest of you to follow. ”Come!”
From atop the hill you can see the Sultan’s Claw in its entirety, its thick, stout trunk in particular. A makeshift campsite composed of several wagons and tents encircle the tree. You also see that something has very apparently gone terribly wrong. One of the wagons, painted blue and spangled with star patterns, is consumed by a grand inferno that lights the night. A strong wind picks up, making the massive flames dance and showering the area with glowing cinders. At least a dozen people scramble about the camp, attempting to address the crisis one way or the other.
Four red-armored men and a woman dressed in regal clothing use buckets to splash water onto the raging fire. In between salvos they retrieve more water from a barrel on a nearby cart.
A pair of burly, armored men pull two badly burnt bodies away from the flaming wagon, dragging them to a spot several feet away and laying them on the ground.
The two men then hurry to join two of their similarly armored companions at a large wagon precariously close to the flaming one. The four men throw their weight against the wagon, attempting to push it away without avail.
An elderly man scrambles to the injured, kneeling at their side and proceeding to take out a number of small glass bottles.
All the while, an assortment of pigs, goats and sheep wander around the campground aimlessly, thrown into confusion by the ensuing chaos. A man and woman attempt to corral them back into their pen, with middling success.
As your caravan reaches the edge of camp, Garavel quickly dismounts his camel and addresses the five of you. ”Find some way to help,” he orders, his voice firm yet calm, in spite of the disaster, ”If that tree goes up in flames, every gnoll for miles around will know we are here.” With that said, he runs toward the water cart to retrieve a bucket and assists the rest of the firefighters.
Khasra quickly dismounts and immediately springs into action. He begins barking orders to those already trying to put the fire out.
"Use sand or dirt! Water isn't the only thing that works! We need shovels to dig for the dirt. Use your head!" he says while looking for anything he can use for a shovel if none are available.
No tools of the sort appear to available in the immediate vicinity, asides from the extra pails on the cart. They are nonetheless sturdy; as loose as the sandy scrubland soil is, it would be easy enough to scoop up.
Evidently hearing Khasra's words, the woman with the fine clothing glances at him, regarding him with unfamiliarity. The moment is brief, however; nodding at the half-elf, she relays the message the other firefighters with a steady, authoritative voice. "Use dirt for now, it will be faster! We can worry about cooling it afterwards!"
Khatijah isn't nearly as graceful as Khasra, and winds up rolling after getting off the too tall camel. She runs to the wagon that's in danger of catching flame and getting behind it to push.
This is an ill omen, I can feel it. she thinks to herself as she pushes her legs and arms through the stiffness and the aching.
Thurrios will dismount and move over to the men trying to push the wagon.
As he goes, he will glance under the wagon to ensure the wheels are unblocked, and it looks like the wagon should move ok.
"Let us all push as one, on the count of three, and by the Dawnflower we will get this thing out of the way. Alright, ONE! TWO! THREE!"
Thurrios pushes with all of his might to move the wagon.
Thurrios checks the wheels, finding that they have sunk into the dirt. Evidently, this wagon is very heavy.
The men pushing the wagon are quite surprised when the two stranger join them in their exertions. Far too busy to complain however, they move over slightly to make room for Khatijah and Thurrios. Together, everyone pushes against the heavy wagon. One of the men, greasy-haired and dirty faced, manages to respond to inquisitor in between his grunts.
"Well maybe she should... get her flaming arse down here... and help push this damn- Ah!"
The wheels start to turn abruptly, near causing the loudmouth to fall flat on his face. Without much additional effort, you are able to keep the wagon rolling.
"Less talk, more push" Khatijah tells the loud-mouthed mercenary.
Looking upon the scene Sami hops off her camel almost immediately. Ignoring the fire, wagon, and everything else she rushes immediately towards the injured innocents. Taking a deep breath she tries to relax herself before getting to work trying her best to save lives.
"I will do everything I can to help."
Sami speaks to the old man with the glass bottles before attending to the wounded. Looking around, she looks to heal those who have the most grievous wounds first.
Marossa stumbles from her mount for a moment, her eyes wide and fearful as she looks among her companions for a moment, the fire flickering across her vision as she finally decides to follow behind Sami, not wanting to be left alone in this crisis, her mostly bare feet pounding into the loose sand before she slides to a stop next to the two wounded bodies.
Moving to the one Sami doesn't, Marossa whispers to herself as she presses her hands against the worst of the wounds, blood immediately staining her hands, "Just like Master Abai said... Just like Master Abai said..."
Marossa's hands suddenly fill with a pale green light as she casts her voice through the spellsong "Life flows as the river, Making pains fade and wither."
Having gotten the wagon moved out of harm's way, Thurrios exhorts, "come you lot, let's aid in fighting the fire!"
Helping where and as he can, Khasra gathers sand with the pail to put the fire out.
The two unconscious mercenaries, one a man and the other a woman, are both covered with severe burns. They both breathe slowly, but it is apparent to even an untrained eye that their wounds will kill them if left untreated. Neither seems particularly worse off than the other.
The old man does not seem to notice Sami and Marossa at first, far too preoccupied with fumbling with his glassware. He can be heard muttering incoherently, searching through the clearly unorganized bottles. By the time he does look up, they have already done their work.
Sami's spell seems to ease the man's suffering, leaving him wounded but otherwise stable. Meanwhile, several of the woman's burns vanish as Marossa's restorative magic flows through her, exposing clean, undamaged skin. She stirs slightly, a groan escaping her charred lips. The alchemist wordlessly marvels at the two strangers for a moment, before gathering his wits.
No longer in a panic, he retrieves two vials filled with pinkish fluid. "Here, have him imbibe this," he says to Sami before she can get around to her ritual, handing her one of the vials. He unstoppers the other and has the female mercenary drink it, healing even more of her burns.
"I don't know who the two of you are, but thank you," he says graciously, looking his patient over for more wounds, "Kallien and Trevvis owe you their lives."
Sami gives the old man a warm smile as he speaks. She was just glad that she could be of help. Standing up she looks over to Marossa before speaking to the man.
"I'm just glad we could be of help."
After that the girl reaches onto her side and pulls out the small amount of wine she had left. Opening up the waterskin she takes a big gulp before tossing it over towards Marossa.
"Drink up you deserve it! Oh and call me Sami. A title like mistress is way to haughty for a lonely traveler such as myself."
Having saved the wagon, Khatijah moves on to putting out the fire, grabbing a bucket from the water cart and using it to shovel sand onto the fire.
With the heavy wagon out of immediate danger, the four mercenaries follow Khatijah and Thurrios' lead, nearly doubling the number of people tackling the blaze.
Khasra's suggestion proves far more time efficient, allowing everyone to throw dirt and sand onto the fire at a steady pace. The flames gradually die down, soon becoming little more than glowing orange embers. Just for good measure, Garavel and one of the red-armored guards splash the wagon with water, cooling off the smoldering wood. With the fire extinguished, the wagon is left standing, albeit utterly blackened and still smoking. The scent of burning incenses wafts from its interior, creating an unpleasant odor in combination with the smell of smoke.
Covering their mouths, two of the guards hasten to climb aboard the wagon, disappearing within. Garavel moves to a spot nearby to speak with the woman from before.
"Excellent job friends," Thurrios says as he claps several of the strangers on their backs.
"What is that smell?" Khatijah asks as her face pales some. She covers her mouth and nose, moving away from the wagon, and hopefully somewhere that won't make her eyes water.
Khasra moves over to where Garavel is speaking with the woman. When he walks up, what are they talking about?
The chaos in the camp seems to subside now that the fire is gone. Evidently well-practiced in the ways of herding, the man and woman that were chasing the animals manage to secure them in their pens once more.
Kallien and Trevvis, the mercenaries Marossa and Sami helped to heal, are back on their feet, more or less healed completely with the help of a few extra potions. The old man can be heard chastising them over their recklessness, though his complaints go largely unheard. The two patients give their saviors their thanks before sauntering off, joining their companions around a campfire.
“...a moment later than the nick of time, as usual,” the woman says to Garavel, watching as the guards inspect the ruined cart. “But I don’t know what would have happened if you and those others had not arrived. I take it that they are the ones you recruited? I was expecting… more of them.”
“This is not a mission many are so eager to take,“ the majordomo answers simply, before gesturing toward the wreckage. “What happened here?”
The woman shakes her head. “I don’t know. It just went up in flames without warning… those damned animals broke out around the same time. It took longer than I would have liked to get a grasp of the situation.”
At this point the red-armored guards leave the wagon, one of them approaching the woman with a stoic expression. “Eloais is dead,” he reports grimly.
The news does not seem to faze the apparent leader of the expedition. “I suspected as much.” She turns to Garavel, her expression placid. “Bring me your recruits - there is a matter that must be addressed before we can proceed.” Turning on her heels, she looks to Khasra meaningfully before approaching the largest tent in the camp, its exterior every bit as extravagant as her clothing. Lifting its flap, she disappears within.
Garavel regards the half-elf with a nod before approaching the other new additions to the expedition in turn, informing them of their employer’s wishes. “Meet me at the large tent. I suspect Almah wishes to discuss the fire.”
Sami looks somberly at the burning ashes and takes a few steps away from the source of the wretched smell.
"Smells like incense, though it's hard to tell with everything burning. The elders back in my home village used to have me burn them because of my divine connection."
Thinking of the fact, Sami walks back over to the wagon and does a few gestures. Speaking a short prayer to Desna in Elven she claps her hands as she finishes. Maybe this wasn't the way they were meant to be used, but at least they wouldn't go completely to waste.
"Oh Great Dreamer! Oh Starsong and The Tender of Dreams. Please hear my prayer as I call out to your nights sky. May your wings guide those chained to this land to freedom. May their cries not remain mute to your ears. I beg of thee."
After finishing up her prayer the girl makes her way towards Garavel as he calls out to the group. His voice gave her the impression this wasn't just an accidental fire.
Thurrios watches Sami's strange ritual, shrugs his shoulders, and follows her to the large tent.
Marossa stands off to the side as she waits near Sami, her eyes watered slightly from the heat of the fire and the smells coming from the wagon. Her hands clasped together in front of her as she waits for Master Garavel to begin, whispering to herself "I could really use some pesh..."
"Her weakness shall be redeemed."
Khatijah shrugs at Sami's explanation and her prayer. She hadn't seen much to show her the gods cared for anyone. Hearing Garavel summon them to what is apparently her new master's tent, she turns and hurries off. One thing she'd learned as a slave, don't keep your master waiting.
Khasra watches when Almah walks away, and then Garavel speaks to him he responds.
"As do I. Questions are most needed." he says calmly.
With that, Khasra heads to the tent.