Catch Up! Episode 18

The Rumor

The sun was just cresting the low hills at the edge of the Oasis of Ra-En-Kau, its golden light reflecting on the still waters and the graceful sway of the date palms. The oasis shimmered under the clear morning sky, dry and warm already, with only the gentlest of breezes stirring the canopy. Crickets fell silent as birds began their songs, and the first rays of dawn painted the sandstone walls of the sheltering compound in tones of honey and ochre.

The Roving Adventurers gathered for breakfast beneath the shade of a wide canvas awning stretched between two palms. A low table bore fruits, dried meat, steaming flatbread, and spiced tea. Makhulim sat with his boots off, toes curled into the cool sand, chewing slowly while watching Marcho fiddle with his brooch.

Faylen had already stretched her limbs and was plucking gently at her bowstring, listening to the whispered sighs of the spirit within. Nayzungit stood apart, facing the morning sun, greataxe planted in the ground before him, muttering his morning devotion to Angradd.

It was in this quiet moment of routine that they heard the voice—a desperate shout carried across the oasis.

“Caravan to Hom-En-Optre! Call for aid from Kethys! Seeking warriors, trackers, anyone brave enough!”

A lanky human rider on a shaggy desert horse clattered past the water’s edge, calling again. “Urgent news from the coast! Ships delayed, the road to Kethys unsafe—Hom-En-Optre is your only way! A caravan leaves in one hour!”

The party looked to one another.

“What say you?” Makhulim rumbled.

Marcho grinned, already slipping on his pack. “Sounds like coin, chaos, or both.”

Faylen rolled her eyes but stood. “I suppose we’re answering.”

Nayzungit merely shouldered Clementine. “The call to help others is the call of Angradd.”

Makhulim scowled at that but rose all the same.

Heading Out

The caravan consisted of six massive dromedaries, their handlers, and a dozen travelers—traders, messengers, and a group of desert priests carrying relics to the temples in Hom-En-Optre. After some careful negotiation, and a rather spirited debate between Makhulim and the caravan master (a wiry old dwarf named Brannet), they were permitted to join at no cost, provided they took a turn standing watch and repelling any dangers.

The sun was fully risen now, casting sharp shadows along the shifting dunes. The Sands of Ilidian stretched away in every direction, a golden sea of undulating crests and troughs. Though the Briny Sea was to the west, it would take them three full days to reach the port town across this dry ocean.

Sparse clouds hung impossibly high above, pale streaks in the sapphire sky, and the air smelled faintly of salt and sun-baked stone. Occasionally, a breeze would pick up, whispering through the caravan like a sigh from ancient times.

They walked the first league in silence, save the occasional grunt or cough from the camels. Eventually, as the sun rose high, they began to speak.

“Ever seen so much blasted sand?” Makhulim muttered.

Marcho laughed. “Only when I dumped a dwarven spice merchant’s shipment overboard once. You’ve never heard such screaming.”

Faylen smiled faintly and added, “Where I come from, the wind plays through the trees like a harp. This feels… flat.”

Nayzungit looked at the dunes with reverence. “The forge burns hotter in the desert. Angradd would find this place worthy.”

“Would he now?” Makhulim muttered.

The First Day and Night

As the sun burned across the sky, the caravan made its slow, deliberate progress over the dunes. The heat shimmered on the sand, and the only relief came from the tall dunes that cast long shadows in the early evening.

They passed ancient stone markers, half-buried, carved in Old Rha—a language Faylen translated when she wasn’t lost in thought. “Waystones. Markers for the old trade routes. Thousands of years old.”

Marcho climbed one, peering through his spyglass. “Nothing ahead but sand. And maybe bones. Camels, maybe not.”

When dusk finally came, the group circled their tents near a steep dune shaped like a sleeping lion. As the stars began to fill the sky—brilliant, vast, and endless—stories were told.

“I once fought a frost troll using nothing but a meat hook and a torch,” Makhulim said.

Marcho laughed, “That’s a lie. I was there. It was two meat hooks.”

Faylen listened, smiling. “My first spell was supposed to summon a bird. I got an invisible goat instead. It trampled a professor.”

Nayzungit shared solemnly, “I was raised among warbands. But when I found Angradd’s scripture, I knew I had to build, not destroy. That’s why I carry the axe—to cleave evil and raise justice.”

Makhulim looked away, frowning at the flames.

That night, the desert was cold. They huddled near the fire, and despite the distant howls of wind—or jackals—no danger came.

The Second Day and Night

The second day began early. The sand was cooler underfoot before the sun’s ascent, and they moved quickly while the shadows were long. Faylen was particularly distracted that morning, fletching a new arrow and whispering to Charm, who hummed faintly in her grasp.

Marcho noticed. “What’s the bow whispering about now? Telling you I’m handsome again?”

She blushed and muttered, “He says you smell like camel.”

“Compliment in some cultures,” he winked.

Later that day, a mirage took shape on the horizon—a spire of black stone rising from the dunes. Brannet cursed and turned the caravan southward. “Old tomb. Best not even name it. Desert spirits sleep lightly.”

The party stared silently as it faded behind them.

By late afternoon, a sandstorm threatened in the far west—billowing clouds of dust rising like a thunderhead—but the winds shifted just enough to spare them. Still, the air became gritty, and they wrapped their faces in cloth.

That night, by the fire again, talk grew more personal.

“I want to build a forge of my own,” Makhulim said suddenly. “Someday. Maybe after this mess is done.”

Marcho leaned back, arms behind his head. “I’d buy a ship. Small one. Nothing fancy. Just enough to sail wherever I want.”

Faylen looked up at the stars. “I want to stop being afraid. Of getting it wrong. Of what’s in my own head.”

Nayzungit nodded slowly. “I want to make peace with my kin. But that path is full of blood.”

The wind carried no sound that night but the low whistle of grains against canvas.

The Third Morning

The final morning broke golden and quiet. The Briny Sea’s scent was stronger now—tangy and sharp. The dunes had grown more weathered, broken with flat stretches of cracked clay and gleaming salt.

A caravan of beetle-backed creatures passed them, heading east. Their handlers wore jade-tinted goggles and spoke in low, chittering tongues.

Nayzungit nodded in respect as they passed. “They carry desert silver. Blessed metal.”

They crested one final dune, and there, spread before them, was Hom-En-Optre.

Arrival in Hom-En-Optre

The port town shimmered like a gemstone set into the land. Built on sandstone cliffs above a wide, natural harbor, it was a swirl of color, sound, and motion. Ivory towers, crimson market tents, bright flags flapping from ship masts. The harbor teemed with ships from across the Briny Sea—slender elven craft, stout dwarven barges, swift corsair cutters.

The caravan was met at the gates by robed guards with gold-dipped spears. Makhulim handed over their trade seals and received city medallions in return.

“Welcome to Hom-En-Optre,” the guard intoned. “Crossroads of Gold and Sand.”

The streets within were alive—merchants shouting in at least five languages, children darting between spice stalls, beggars calling out blessings and curses. A monkey stole a string of dates and vanished up a wall.

Marcho grinned. “Now this feels like home.”

Faylen stared wide-eyed at the magic lights that danced above a glassblower’s stand.

Makhulim exhaled deeply, the sea air tugging at his beard. “Let’s find the ship to Kethys.”

Nayzungit looked out over the harbor. “May Angradd guide us across the waters.”

And with that, their journey turned toward the sea, the next step in their tale already unfolding in the salt-laced air of Hom-En-Optre.

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