Argrave's boots met something other than sand for the first time in a long while. The ground beneath his feet was still black, though it resembled baked clay more than sand, and some sparse few plants sprouted from cracks in the soil. They were yellow or gray, though, all dead and decaying. The air was dry to the point Argrave wished to keep his mouth shut constantly.
Ahead, the vast dunes of sand began to fade away, if only for a brief bit. The first bit of civilization entered into sight: a giant wall of black clay. It was smooth and strong, standing about thirty feet tall. Argrave could just barely see the leaf of a palm tree poking over the walls—though, instead of green, it was black and purple.
“Maybe we can get a wyvern while we’re here, spare me an awful return hike,” Argrave placed his hand on his back. “Whatever. We made it. This place is called Delphasium,” Argrave turned around to his two companions.
Galamon held Garm, this time, though they had worked out a disguise for the severed head. He had been stuck in the back of Galamon’s pack and wore the elf’s helmet—it was far too large, but it hid his existence in a mostly convincing manner. A cloth, too, covered his head, so even peering beyond would reveal only cloth. To an onlooker, it probably seemed as though the elven warrior had removed his helmet and mounted it on his backpack.
“They rear wyverns here?” Anneliese questioned.
“Not here, no,” Argrave looked back to Delphasium. “The southern tribes that still rear wyverns live further south, where great mountains surround the desert. They’re the last bastion against the Vessels of Fellhorn, persisting off a spring in the mountains. Dangerous place. We’ll go near there… but we have no reason to enter the mountains. Ostensibly.”
“Ostensibly,” Anneliese repeated, as though asking him to explain himself.
“It would… be nice to have one,” Argrave said musingly. “You heard about Mateth, I’m sure.”
Even Anneliese could not hide that the idea intrigued her, but Galamon put his hand on Argrave’s shoulder.
“Look,” he pointed out.
Argrave followed his finger. Far away, there was a great black cloud visibly writhing despite the distance. It was no thundercloud. And even Argrave could tell that it was heading towards them, not away from them.
“Our first sandstorm. At least we didn’t leave the Low Way into this. Well, let’s jump into the water, so to speak—to Delphasium,” Argrave said positively. He pulled his duster’s hood down, shaking some sand out of it, then started walking towards the wall of black clay in the distance.
When they neared the wall, a smell that Argrave had been glad to leave behind in the Low Way entered his nostrils: death and decay. Fortunately, it was not an all-encompassing smell, but rather one originating from a place in particular. There was a dead body leaning against the walls. The dark-skinned body was male and unhealthily thin, ribs and bones poking out against the flesh as though trying to escape. His was not the only corpse.
There were other people taking shelter near the walls. Numbering near fifty, they were unmoving, each and all incredibly skinny. Argrave had thought he looked far too gaunt, but these people’s sunken faces and exposed bony frames were uncomfortable merely to look at. Their loose woolen clothing seemed all the looser on their thin bodies. Their dark skin was lined with deformed tattoos, the ink’s shapes distorted by their starvation. They huddled underneath cloth canopies held up by wooden stakes.
Rats tried to get at the corpses, yet the people would ward them off with weak rebuttals. The rats stayed near, waiting in the shade, waiting for an opportunity. Elsewhere, a group of four ate something—as Argrave grew nearer, he saw it to be one of the rodents. Nothing was wasted—they drank its blood for moisture, and they ate all of its bits, even gnawing on the bone with their brittle teeth. Most striking was the lack of greed: all of the people divided the rat’s parts in equal portions, prioritizing the youngest.
These people stayed still, staring from the shade as Argrave and his companions passed. None seemed to expect or want something from them, and despite their state, there was a proud warning in their gazes. Their eyes were the color of gold: bright, sharp and brilliant. Though they lacked the strength to bury the dead man, they seemed insistent to defend him from the rats, both for sustenance and for the sake of the fallen. Anneliese watched them with intense curiosity, and they held her gaze, watching as she passed.
Once they were far away, Anneliese stepped up beside Argrave.
“Those are the southern tribals,” Anneliese stated.
Argrave interpreted it as a question in part, and so confirmed, “Yes. The Vessels won’t kill them outright. Against their faith, or some such excuse. Instead, they ward them from the town. The guards throw rats over the walls, directly into their camps. Enough to sustain them, but not enough for them to really live. They want to break them—have them submit to thralldom, like those within the city.”
“I see.” Anneliese nodded. “Do the southron elves share their skin tone?”
“Darker, actually,” Argrave answered. “We won’t see much of them, I suspect. They’re all but wiped out.”
“I had wished to speak to my distant kin. Disappointing,” she said, sparing one last glance at the people they’d passed.
“Try not to dwell on those people,” Argrave advised. “Even if we could help them, they are few. Gerechtigkeit will kill all. Picture that, if it helps.”
Anneliese turned away. She could not meet his eyes, but she nodded. Argrave hoped what he said was enough. His words certainly felt empty, even to him.
They followed along the outside of the walls, Argrave leading them towards an entrance to the town that he knew of. Eventually, they saw an established path—though partially buried beneath black sand, the stone road was largely well-maintained.
Six people stood at the gate, guarding the entrance casually. Doubtless they were more numerous to prevent the southern tribals outside from trying to sneak or force their way in. They wore loose-fitting dark gray clothes with chain mail for armor. They wore traces of purple at points, purely for decoration—sashes, tassels, the like. Their helmets were simple domes with a spike on the center, yet they wore masks to protect their face from the sand.
Argrave saw their weapons—two knives on their belt, plus a spear in hand—and once again lamented that he had not paid off his debt to Erlebnis. He had completely exhausted his supply of liquid magic from the Amaranthine Heart, yet he suspected there would still be two or three days before he regained his ability to use the Blessing.
Seeing Argrave and his company approaching, the guards came to attention. Galamon placed himself ahead of Argrave, ever the diligent guard. His presence was large enough that the guards looked visibly nervous—doubtless Anneliese and Argrave’s tall stature amplified that effect.
They gathered in front of the gate, and seeing their movement, Argrave stopped Galamon.
“Hold,” one stepped forward, using the spear as a walking stick. “State your business.”
“Just travelling, looking to stay within the town. I was told there was plenty of inns here at Delphasium,” Argrave stepped up beside Galamon.
The guard stared up at Argrave, expression mostly indiscernible behind his white mask. His eyes were suspicious, though, and he asked, “Travelling where?”
“Deep south. Argent. Visiting an old friend,” Argrave supplied.
“Some friendship, to travel so far over the Burnt Desert,” the guard noted, his suspicions somewhat abated by Argrave’s knowledge of a city deep within the desert. “You come from the north?”
“Not Vasquer, if that’s what you’re asking,” Argrave shook his head, knowing well the hostility between those in the Burnt Desert and Vasquer. “We came from further north, where the land is frozen most of the year. It’s why we’re so pale. Also why we came during the winter—suspect we’d melt in the hottest time of the year.”
The guard let out a wheezing laugh at that. “Alright.” He nodded. “You can enter. No tolls here, not for travelers. You know our laws?”
“Pay the taxes. No violence, no theft, and no using magic within the city… unless you’re associated with the Vessels of Fellhorn. And lastly… don’t give water to outsiders.”
The guard nodded. “Merchants will check for this mark on the back of your hand.” He raised his hand up, revealing a blue cross with four x’s on the tips. There was something mystical about the tattoo—it shimmered like sapphire lake water on the man’s backhand. “Since you don’t have them, you’ll have to pay the taxes.”
“Got it,” Argrave nodded. The tattoo marked a person as a citizen sworn to a Vessel. They doubled as constant monitors, ensuring those that broke the laws could not do so secretly.
The man lowered his hand, gaze moving from between Galamon and Anneliese. “Northern elves, hmm? Rumor has it they sacked a city in Vasquer.”
“I’ve heard the same,” Argrave nodded. “Didn’t confirm it, though.”
The guard’s gaze lingered on them. “Make sure they cause no trouble,” he finally warned, stepping aside.
They passed by the guards, Argrave leading them ahead. Most of their attention stayed on Galamon. Argrave felt a little nervous, wondering if any would be able to see Garm, but he didn’t dare let that show in his actions or expression.
They passed beneath the black clay walls of Delphasium, entering into the town beyond. No comment was made about the helmet hiding a severed head on Galamon’s back, and so they entered into the oasis town without issue. The change in scenery was dramatic.
The outside had been a desolate wasteland of blackness, utterly devoid of flora, yet within the walls was a drastic change. The buildings and streets were all made of a clean white rock reminiscent of marble. Black plants lined the walkways, reminiscent of agave or aloe vera, while palm trees with black leaves bearing bright purple fruits filled vast orchards. Though plants black in color were most abundant, extremely bright crops persisted everywhere—reds, purples, yellows, and blues. There were peppers, olives, wildflowers, and other such hardy desert plants.
Though the streets were not exceptionally busy, they were still somewhat crowded. The people wore multicolored loose-fitting robes and were adorned with plentiful jewelry. The denizens of the Burnt Desert were disparate from the pale people of Vasquer, skin tone ranging from a light tan color to a dark brown. Their hair was dark, and much of it was bound with golden ornaments bearing bright jewelry or silken cloth with bright dye.
Argrave, Anneliese, and Galamon could not stick out more if they tried. They were ridiculously tall, pale, and majority elven—Argrave had grown used to being watched, lumbering stick that he was, but it redoubled in this place. People openly spoke of them, pointing as they passed. It was a wonder they were not stopped by random people on the street. Perhaps only Galamon’s intimidating presence spared them that.
Yet Argrave walked by, trying his best to ignore things. Eventually, they came to the central square. There, a great marble sculpture stood tall, depicting a naked woman holding a horn overflowing with fruit. Two spouts of water rose beside her. It was a depiction of Fellhorn—not the god itself, but of its harvest.
Argrave paused at the fountain, watching the water spray the central square wantonly. His mind involuntarily conjured images of the southern tribals outside the walls. He had known what to expect coming here, but seeing it in person was a different experience entirely.
He bit his lip, mindful not to express his disapproval visually lest he gain the ire of the watching crowd. He turned to Galamon. “The place—it’s this way. It’ll be a bit more expensive because we’re using Vasquer coins, but I think we should be able to pass by the night.” He pointed to both of them. “Now, something to note—don’t let people touch your skin easily. If a Vessel of Fellhorn has skin contact, they can do a hell of a lot of damage in seconds. Shake hands, your hand will shrivel in seconds.”
Both nodded seriously.
“That sandstorm—think it’s going to occupy the south,” Galamon commented, staring beyond the walls. “I’m told they can last days.”
Argrave followed his gaze. If he had been playing ‘Heroes of Berendar,’ a sandstorm simply meant that his vision would be obscured—in reality, though, travelling during a sandstorm was all but a death sentence.
“We worry about that tomorrow. I need to wash the taste of that cyrello out of my mouth,” said Argrave, stepping away from the water fountain. “You can try spicy food, Anneliese. This will be entertaining,” he said with a smile.
Anneliese raised a curious brow. “You must tell me of the food of the place you come from,” she began, following him.
The three ventured deeper into the oasis town. Near the fountain, a well-dressed man watched them leave. His gaze lingered for a long while, and then he turned, heading for a palatial estate in the distance.
