Episode 18 – Echoes Across the Dunes

The Ascent

Each of them still bore some mark of the tomb’s legacy—dust in their lungs, fear still clinging to their minds, blood not quite dry on their armor or clothes.

Marcho poked his head up from the stone stairwell like a wary meerkat. His brooch glimmered softly, though the light of day overwhelmed its usual glow. He scouted around quickly, confirming they were alone.

“Sky’s too bright for ghosts,” he muttered.

Faylen emerged next, brushing long blonde braids back over her shoulders. Her pale face was streaked with sweat, and her blue eyes scanned the horizon like the desert might suddenly rise up and ask another riddle.

Nayzungit clomped up last, hefting Clementine, his greataxe. The green glow of the blade faded in the light, but the half-orc’s eyes remained wary.

“May Angradd curse this cursed tomb forever,” he muttered, and Makhulim snapped back instantly:

“Don’t invoke him here, you shovel-tusked blasphemer!”

But even that familiar exchange lacked its usual fire. The desert sun sapped anger as effectively as it did moisture.

Whispers on the Sand

They rode for hours before they spoke again. The dunes rolled endlessly westward, and the faint memory of the stars guided them as the sun dropped. Faylen tried to recall what she had learned of Ra-En-Kau—the oasis of respite hidden in the desert’s heart—but the suitor-voice in her bow Charm kept whispering unrelated facts about her spell components. Her focus fractured. She let the others lead.

That night, beneath a vault of stars so crisp they seemed etched into the sky, they made camp atop a dune shaped like a crescent moon.

It began just after midnight.

Marcho was on watch when the first whisper crawled across the sand. Not wind. Not beast. A whisper meant to be heard, soft as silk drawn over a blade.

He stood slowly, hand at Courage, scanning the empty dunes. Nothing. He tapped Makhulim with his boot.

“Hush. Don’t wake me unless we’re dy—” the dwarf began, before going still. A low chant drifted toward them, melodic and menacing.

Faylen bolted upright, eyes wide. “That’s… that’s arcane. But twisted. Wrong.”

Nayzungit gripped his axe, eyes darting. “It seeks to enter. Guard your minds.”

The night pressed in. The air thinned. Sand around the camp trembled, whispering names in forgotten tongues.

Faylen cast Protection from Evil, her hand trembling. The words nearly turned to ash on her tongue.

Marcho clutched his brooch tight. The light it shed for him alone flared brightly now, carving away a pocket of sanity in the dark.

The night passed not with rest, but with grim resistance. The whispers never quite broke their will—but they tried.

Sanctuary of The Dawn

By morning, they were ragged, dust-streaked, and silent. But on the horizon, a shimmer. A glimmer of green.

Ra-En-Kau.

As they approached, the whispering faded—not in silence, but in relief. The air lightened. The sand softened. Their steps grew easier, their breathing less labored.

Faylen was the first to weep—not sobbing, but a single tear down a cheek caked in grime. She touched her bow. The whispering within Charm stopped.

Makhulim stood taller, the flames of That extinguishing of their own accord. For the first time in days, he wasn’t angry.

Palm fronds swayed ahead, casting long shadows over shallow pools of springwater. Soft grasses and fragrant flowering bushes emerged as they stepped fully into the oasis’ bounds. Birds chirped. The sun, still fierce, was filtered by the tall date trees. A sense of peace, long absent, wrapped around them like a cooling shawl.

They had arrived at a place protected—not just from danger, but from the memory of danger. Some ancient magic lingered here, gentle but firm.

Nayzungit fell to one knee and pressed his forehead to the earth. “This… this is sacred.”

Even Makhulim did not argue.

Waters of Ra-En-Kau

The waters of Ra-En-Kau were not merely wet—they were welcoming. The adventurers washed in silence, each letting the water strip away the clinging remnants of tomb and terror.

Faylen floated, staring at the sky, and for the first time in weeks, she smiled. Marcho busied himself collecting berries and identifying which roots were edible, humming quietly.

Makhulim sat on a warm flat stone, polishing This and That. The axes gleamed more than they should.

Nayzungit meditated beneath a fig tree. He muttered prayers to Angradd, but his tone was hushed, reverent. No zeal. Just thanks.

The oasis had visitors—others who had found sanctuary. A trio of desert nomads, wrapped in sun-bleached linen, shared food without words. A tiefling healer offered balm for cracked skin and swollen feet. A pair of bards strummed lyres beneath a tree, singing softly of the wind and stars.

Ra-En-Kau was not a place for stories. It was a place between stories. And for now, they belonged here.

Dreams and Remembrance

That night, no whispers came.

Instead, the adventurers dreamt.

Makhulim dreamt of a forge that burned white-hot beneath a mountain of stars, where dwarves of old chanted songs of creation. He saw himself hammering a blade not yet forged, one that pulsed with both flame and frost.

Marcho dreamt of a shadowless path through a forest of crystal trees. He walked alone, yet felt no fear.

Faylen dreamt of her bow, but the whispering suitor within it was silent. Instead, a young elf she did not recognize handed her a scroll with the words “Listen differently.”

Nayzungit dreamt of a mountain monastery, and a voice like thunder that said simply, “Speak when it matters.”

The dawn rose gently over Ra-En-Kau, and the adventurers rose with it, feeling—if not healed—then mended.

The desert still waited. But so did their path forward.

Ra-En-Kau faded behind them as they stepped out into the sands once more, but its blessing lingered.