The year is 720 in the last week of Birth.
These months it is relatively cool in Uraq. But even then the trip southwest from Rashadar was hard. They skirted far from Ra'ad the Blue's claimed territory, instead following the almost forgotten Obelisk Trail. Dozens of twelve foot black pillars of obsidian rose out of the sand, the word "trail" inscribed on it in ten different languages: Dwarven, Gnomish, Halfling, Uraqi, Imperial, and Elven being the only recognizable ones. The others were in the strange languages of cuneoform Panogolan and Buneir. Even the odd sweeping kanji of Kellisan was present.
Scrawled on almost half of these obelisks were the words "death" in Gnoll.
They took the long way around the Trackless Storm, the several mile system of near constant sandstorms requiring the detour- even if the fabled pesh fields were true. They skirted quickly past the Slithering Cove as sand eels hissed among the bones of travelers and slow, stupid camels. They walked warily past the Crouching Jackal as it stared at them, keeping eye on the Creeping Watcher miles away.
Until finally the sands hardened and turned into cracked, dry earth and the occasional cactus multiplied and was joined by thorny scrub brush and the massive Scorched Peaks were visible in the distance. The eerie Pale Mountain loomed over the mid-evening horizon like a tombstone.
They were all collected by a lantern-jawed man named Garavel Imaad-Isaam. He has said little on the long journey southwest toward the far-off mountain range, instead leading the camel caravan steadily toward its goal, where their employer supposedly waits.
A dry wind blows Garavel's keffiyeh in the wind. "Over the next hill," he says simply.
"May the Gods preserve you and your master, Garavel Imaad-Isaam." Abud says loudly. His face is still covered by a strip of cloth coming from his turban. "I eagerly await to hear what he has to propose to us."
Garavel turns slightly to Abud.
"She."
Gerber Loewe remains stony and silent as he has for most of the journey. Apparently detoxing in the desert from over a year of alcohol abuse has not done much to improve his disposition. At least he's not hunched over his camel and dry heaving today. Still, he's a sickly color and he sweats far more than his travelling companions.
"Ah..." Abud says, his voice dripping with honey. "A Flower of the desert. May her family be blessed and plentiful. What can you tell us, in the little time we have, about your most noble mistress?"
"She is the eldest daughter from a respected merchant family in Rashadar. She is ambitious and determined," Garavel says matter-of-factly.
"Thrice blessed, I can tell." Abud grins. "We can be sure an enterprise put together by such a woman will be gifted by the most potent auguries."
"May I ask if your mistress has taken a husband?”
Garavel keeps his eyes straight ahead. "You may ask."
Jadid rides silently.
"Hahaha! We're in the middle of the desert and your only thoughts are if she's a rich heiress?" Dima laughs.
"You misunderstand me, fair one. I have been separated from her for many moons, but I am firmly committed to my mate." Abud says. "I merely wanted to know if she has a family, so I could offer my services as a teacher. If she has not taken a husband, I would limit myself to the mission at hand and move on. Adventuring is fine, but I would like to stay in one place for a year or two."
"Has she and is she blessed with children? Are they interested in a teacher of arts and elven lore?"
Garavel nods at something as he taps the reins. The camel spits petulantly.
"She is not married, so of course she has no children."
"And your purpose here is not to teach, but to do as she wishes."
"Ah, no children...." he says, trying to hide his disappointment. "No use for a teacher where there are no students. Fine, let us see what your mistress wishes."
"Your mistress," Mahjub begins, having absorbed the information presented thus far, "would she be Almah Roveshki, by any chance?"
"She is," says simply.
"Excellent," Mahjub says with a satisfied smile. "Are we to play some small part in her stuggle to return her family's name to its former glory? No small feat, but I admire her tenacity."
"As do I," Garavel answers.
"Do you really?" Mahjub asks, casually tapping his own left temple as he meets Garavel's gaze.
Garavel meets Mahjub's gaze evenly and without emotion.
"Yes. I do."
Mahjub simply shrugs and smiles, turning slightly to focus his attention on the rider behind him. "So Dima, any word from your sister? Has Mehri been talking about me?"
Dima studies Mahjub carefully for a moment. "Weren't you the street rat Mehri pulled the awning down upon, once upon a time? She laughed at that a lot."
Mahjub laughs a little. "I was hoping for something a little more complimentary, but I'll take what I can get."
Dima adjusts her shawl slightly, allowing the tiny fox draped around her shoulders to stretch and yawn somewhat, as she considers her words.
"I haven't heard from her in a while myself."
"Oh? Has there been a falling-out?"
Before Dima can answer, Garavel speaks."We are here. The Sultan's Claw."
As soon as the craggy tree begins to appear over the next hill, it becomes obvious why it is called as such. With five immense, leafless branches, the tree looks more like a skeletal hand than a meager tree.
But as the party tops the last rise of the hill, they see a caravan of a half-dozen wagons and a large tent clustered around the distinctive tree. Normally a welcome sight after their long journey... except for the fire.
Lush orange and red flames engulf an elaborate wooden wagon decorated with painted moons and stars. A gout of smoke pours from an open door. A wind blows and a number of fortune telling cards fly out from inside of the wagon, one of the singed cards catching Jadid directly into his chest in a burst of orange cinders. Suddenly, the whole wagon erupts into flame.
The camp is in chaos. Camels in pens near the tree dance in agitation and a clutch of confused and bleating goats and livestock careen around the wagon as a man and a woman frantically try to chase them down. Four soldiers in the distinctive red chitin-plate armor of the Pactmaster Guard begin shouting at each other as they surround the wagon. Four burly mercenaries struggle to pull an enclosed wagon just feet within the burning wagon out of the flame's reach. An older man frantically attempts to calm a moaning man as he tries to bandage his wounds, blood beginning to drench the cracked earth below. Another burnt figure lies still next to them.
The central flap of the elaborate tent flies open and a regal woman who can only be Almah steps out into the firelit dusk. "Douse that flame!"she shouts to the men surrounding the wagon before turning toward the party. "Ah, Garavel!" she says. "Just a moment later than the nick of time as usual." Looking specifically past her major domo, she barks a simple order before running off toward the fire.
"Find some way to help!"
