Every day in Deadwood was the same to Nakala. The sun rose, people died, and then it fell, and with it, more people fell to the horrors of this wretched land. To her, it was just the way Deadwood was, sad to say. The massive and proud woman marched through the land with a faded-green poncho on made for some Kaimerian or something.

Well, that Kaimerian wouldn't need it where he was going.

The hood was up, and nobody could see Nakala's face as she walked on the beaten path all by her lonesome. She felt and heard the whistling of the wind, kicking up dust with each step that she took. She stopped herself for just one second, as she swore she heard the wind whisper something into her ear. Maybe it was just her imagination. She looked to the left, then to the right. The coast was close for the lonesome traveler, but she knew that danger lurked around every corner, and over every hill.

Most likely the one that she was ascending as she monologued to herself.

Once again, the Bone Sea lived up to its name - a ribcage lay half-buried near the plateau of the slope, while the upper half of some horned wildebeest's skull lay unceremoniously overturned just a few paces ahead. Whether it was a few years old or a few centuries, it made no difference - the creature had long since lost its way and whatever remained had been picked clean by the carrion eaters and time itself.

Yet as she ascended the next incline, the rocky expanse gave way to what seemed like an endless, blue horizon. The Bonewater was the largest body of water in Deadwood - perhaps in all the world since the Cataclysm - fed by the Orthosi mountains hundreds of miles to the northwest, which served as the only landmark of which there could be no mistaking it in the Bone Sea.

Though salty, the Bonewater's importance was no less diminished, for the closest thing to 'road' stretched about its shores, a well-trodden trail that was nonetheless littered with the bones of countless travelers and beasts that had met an untimely end in their journeys at one point another. Today, a loose caravan of assorted travelers seem to stand out as dark silhouettes on the trail, with the outlines of spears, clubs, axes, even swords denoting that some of their numbers were armed. It was the way of things, for raiders and clansmen stalked the land while few could trust one another to rely on their fellows for protection.

Some walked afoot, others with a horse or a pack mule trailing behind them - it seemed the pilgrims were moving in the same direction as the half-giantess - south. Further along, the horizon elevated far above the water, a monolithic presence loomed in defiance of the unforgiving landscape which surrounded it.

Exusia.

It seemed that not even superstition and centuries of taboo had been enough to warn others away from the enigmatic realm, the fabled floating city protected from interlopers and the elements by the very magic it provided sanctuary to. The very heat made it seem to shimmer in the sky as though it were a mirage, magnifying its already surreal presence. She paused for a second as she stopped at the top of the hill to gaze upon the magnificent city. One day she dreamed of living here with Joko...

Joko.

A salty tear went down her face, she resisted the urge to whip the tear from her face. Merely out of fear of getting any of this dust or sand in her eye. As wondrous as the sight of Exusia was... she had to remain focus on the task at hand. She grabbed the side of her hood and yanked it into the way to shield her face from the upcoming dust storm.

On the horizon, almost underneath the floating city was an encampment. It was a large camp surrounded by a wooden fence with sharp wooden spikes protruding outwards. Inside the walls were many different colored tents, and had many people moving around. For a moment, Nakala thought that it was a bandit camp, but she knew it was exactly where she needed to go. She looked at the flier (perhaps it was more of an invitation) that she pulled off the walls of Darington. She gave it a good look as she crossed a sign for the little town. It was named...

Hope Passage.

Nakala marched down the old beaten pathway much like the other travelers... when she approached the gate, two Exusia soldiers wielding spears dropped into a defensive stance. She pulled out the invitation from the bag on her hip and then showed it to them and without a word they lowered their weapons.

"Head to the large tent in the center of Hope Passage." One guard said as he stepped to the side.

"The delegate will speak with you."

Nakala nodded her head and pushed her way through the guards and marched through this military-style encampment. There were soldiers left and right and then some were side-eyeing her as she walked into the center of the camp. A sigh escaped her lips as she stepped inside, pulling her hood down from the back as she looked at the woman in the center of the room. She was standing over a table with a map on top of it, and she was quite attractive.

"Why hello there," the woman greeted her, "Let's wait for some of the others to arrive, and then we'll get started, okay?"

Nakala nodded her head as she found her own little spot in the room as she watched everyone pour in.

It had been quite some time since Azariah had left the mountain realms of the Karlezek Enclaves, at first riding on the back of a gryphon that lifted off from one of the numerous balconies that dotted the surface of the mountain, under which the vast underground city of Mithras was located. There were dozens more like it, though the glory and splendor of the Karlezek had shriveled up in the wretched times that had passed ever since the Cataclysm that shattered the world. After a bit of flying, he'd land in the Karlezek outpost that stood the farthest away from their subterannean realms, commissioning a pair of ponies to carry the supplies that he needed in the journey to the Bone Sea, above which floated the titanic city of Exusia; his dream destination. The only place to be

He would then travel all the way to the deserts that graced the surroundings of the flying city, his beasts of burden and himself protected by a magishell made from forged steel, which ran through the dozens of sigils written on each and every joint, spring, and cog, carrying a silent sentience and an unsleeping, watchful eye. After some time of travelling alone, he would eventually join up with a caravan of travellers and traders headed to the south. They travelled along a road that hugged the coast of the Bonewater; a stream of pilgrims all seemngly headed towards the most glorious realm in the land.

Glorious... and wealthy.

Azariah was always the kind to forge ahead in self determination. He did not want to be directed by others, at least if it isn't something he wants to do; as such, he had left Mithras, carrying with him an invitation that would allow him a life of wealth while avoiding the responsibilities of being the Lord of a trading guild in the Karlezek Enclaves. Such a position was luxurious in its own way; but the risks of being murdered in one's sleep by rivals were great, and in addition to that, he had to get together with someone he barely knew. What was her name even? Azariah couldn't remember.

Finally, after what seemed forever, Azariah arrived in their destination. Exusian soldiers allowed him to pass into the camp when he showed the invitation, letter, whatever the hell it was. This was the place, of that there, there was no doubt. Heading to the large tent as the soldiers instructed, he'd sooner step into the office of the person in charge.

Azariah lowered the hood of his green cloak; a keepsake from home. He'd soon notice that he was looking up at everyone else in there so far, especially the giant woman that stood just a little to the left. His sword was hidden inside a sheath slung on his back; the ponies were tied to a post outside, and both of the magishells were well sequestered in bags on the back of the small horses. The tome that his master had given him was also kept hidden on the bag that he carried, though Exusians did not fear magic, other people did, and if those others knew what he was, they would burn him for being a witch.

Ah, well. It's not like all the dangers in the land can be combatted with swords and arrows alone.

With the woman telling them to wait, Azariah... waited. If one were to look at him, he'd look deceptively human, though the light purple hue of his Karlezek race would slowly seep back in the longer he wasn't standing under sunlight. One might think he was going to faint, though.

With nothing better to do, he would whisper to the giant of a woman that stood rather nearby. "So... what led you to accept this invitation to almost certain death?" Azariah coughed. "Ehem. How rude of me... I'm Azariah Kravchenko. I supposed we're for the same thing... and if that's the case, it would be better to get to know each other..."

---

---

Blue eyes glanced up over the top of an old, yellowing book at the sound of the tent flapping open, took account of the new arrivals with thankfully unfamiliar faces, and lingered as a hand swept a page back and forth to continue to the illusion of reading. Hazel had arrived early to Hope Passage and found herself a cozy corner of the tent to make herself at home in, her lumpy satchel serving as a makeshift ottoman for her to cross her legs upon. Her travel through the Bone Sea had been quick and without much peril despite her avoiding the path of pilgrims and future martyrs—Hazel understood the sense behind safety in numbers, but certain things were easier when she was alone. Once she’d lost the Ember Makers back at the bordering lands of the Bone Sea there had been next to no excitement with the notable exclusion of seeing Exusia for the first time and finally having a moment of respite to plow through a few chapters of her book.

However, the arrivals were distracting her from her the old Moon Elf piece of historical literature that was so chock-full of needless character development, flowery and overly-descriptive scene dressings, and extremely graphic and prolonged passages about undressings that it made the political and historical views from the author seem unreliable. She sat perfectly still and watched from her corner while mostly blocked from their sight thanks to the woman reading the map. The short man whispered something to the larger woman, but Hazel couldn’t make it out and nobody was paying her to be an eavesdropper anyway. Her eyes glanced back down at the faded novel, read the random paragraph she’d flipped to, and they widened. Oh no...

A plume of red rose to her cheeks as she snapped the book shut loud enough to alert the others of her half-obscured presence. Carefully, Hazel kept her hand over the title of the book as she slid in into her satchel, heaved the bag up onto her lap, and kept it there like it was cuffed to her wrist and filled with precious gems. She cleared her throat, took a swig from her waterskin, and felt the heat in her face die down. Now it made sense why she’d found the book hidden under a mattress. The title ought to be changed. The Trysts and Temptations of the Moonlit Kingdom? It was clearly referring to political affairs and the trade of consumer goods, not the smut found present in chapter three. Hazel felt more in danger of being judged for having such a book on her than her spell tome here that the thought of burning it crossed her mind.

She inhaled deep and collected herself. The idea of destroying something just because she didn’t like it or understand it were the thoughts belonging to an Ember Maker. She slung her satchel over her shoulder as she stood and stretched, her knuckles popping like a wet log in a flame. Just two years ago and she would’ve seen fit to turn this whole desert encampment into a burial mound of twisting glass and burnt bodies. The Ember Makers tolerated the Exusians solely because they stayed locked up in their city and because, secretly, they were terrified of their capabilities. Only Magistrates like Hazel would have the spine to dare stand up against them and their magic, and Magistrates like her were becoming a thankfully scarce resource these days. Despite their boasting of unity against evil they were little more than just another creature of destruction bent on keeping Deadwood from ever regrowing. There was no doubt in Hazel’s mind that this little request of the Queen would be deemed heretical for some reason or another. Not like it mattered; the Ember Makers couldn’t excommunicate her twice.

Hazel walked towards the table in the room. She acknowledged the other arrivals with a head nod but not a single word out of fear of interrupting their conversation—although she was deeply curious as to what they were saying. They seemed to be human like Hazel. She pretended not to notice the amusing nature of their extreme height difference and suppressed a smile as she approached the delegate. Here, she would be able to listen in on the conversation while still making herself appear to be of some use. Hazel freed her map case from its hook and set it down on the table, careful not to disturb any of the work the other woman had done.

“Excuse me. You’ve been studying this for awhile. Mind if I look?” asked Hazel to the delegate, her voice low and scratched. She didn’t wait for permission as she leaned over the table. After the briefest of beats Hazel sighed and shook her head. “I feared as much. This map is a little outdated.”

With a flick of her wrist Hazel unscrewed the cap to her map case and retrieved a stack of rolled papers. She undid the ties on a few that still looked a bit crisp and stuffed the rest back into the case. She pressed the maps flat out before herself and the delegate, knitted her brow, and bit her lip as she studied them. Slowly, she began to pinpoint with her finger the discrepancies between the map on the table and her own stockpile.

“Here. This mountain passage is now collapsed. Better to strike off back here and skirt around the rot grove, otherwise you waste a day or two’s travel before having to either turn around or cut right through it—not ideal. This crossing is still accessible but extremely dangerous to attempt due to one of the Bone Clans claiming it as some kind of holy land. There’s another shallow crossing to the east that they don’t watch right about...here. This town, this town, and this town have all been abandoned. The refugees have formed an outpost called Treloch here that might serve as a respite, assuming you have goods to offer.”

Her hand had grabbed a quill and was about to start marking the map when she finally looked over at the delegate and stopped, carefully setting the feathered inkpen back down. With a sheepish grin she said, “Sorry, I have overstepped my position. Mapmaking is a bit of a hobby of mine. Is this even the planned route for the excursion?” She took a step away, her arms folded behind her back as her thumbs wrestled with one another. “Feel free to consult these maps either way. I’ll, uh, just quietly observe, if you don’t mind and...”

Hazel felt her eyes get drawn back down to the map. She shifted her weight and grimaced before her hand struck out like a cobra, jabbing at the name of some salt lake before it retreated back to being clasped behind her back. “That’s dried up. Sorry,” she whispered and then looked away, aware of the nuisance she had already become.

Kai drew a circle, then four short lines coming out of it pointed towards the cardinal directions. In the center they placed the bones of the chicken they ate last night, clapped their hands twice, then called upon Khiar-koff to hear their prayer, before setting the bones on fire. The flames were magenta; Khiar-koff was present. Kai said a prayer in the language of the dead, asking for another day their death is delayed. As the prayed the flames turned dark purple, then black, before burning out and leaving nothing behind.

"Na'mn," Kai ended their prayer, then smudged out the markings just as the boat pulled into the dock a mile or so outside Hopes Passage.

Weeks ago, Kai said farwell to the only father they acknowledge having, Khym, and traveled days through the mountains west of Darington. On the other side they paid for a boat and crew to take them around the east outskirts of the Shattered Isles and down the Ophran River to the lake below Exusia. The journey was safer than traveling on land where they would have run into bandits, slavers, any manner of deadly creature. Pirates didn't bother traveling this far inland. Not many ways to escape going in a straight line, and it wasn't worth the gamble of whether or not whatever crew they run into being stronger than them.

Kai paid the captain the other half of the amount owed for the journey, then set out to the land of new opprotunity. They sent their Kisha, El, ahead of them to scout for danger. The sun beat down from above, worse in the Bone Sea than in Darington and Dakora, their water skin might not make it to Hopes Passage, and their hair on their neck didn't help. They tied back their brown and blond locks with thread from their sowing kit. El came back with nothing to report other than sand and bones; those of which they picked up on the way and put in their sack for tomorrow's sacrifice. When they reached the eastern gates, two soldiers asked them to state their business.

They pulled out a flyer Khym brought home; it promised riches beyond anything they've ever accumulated for themself. The soldiers let them through, and told them where to go. Finding a colorful tent in the middle of the town was easy. The set El to hover above it and be their look out. Inside the tent were four others: the delegate looking over a marked up map, a woman flittering over the map with a pen, and a little man and a large woman off to the side. Kai didn't bother introducing themself, and instead took a seat toward the back where they noticed a little opening where the tent wasn't held down properly. Kai didn't trust places with only one exit, so making one themself was sometimes called for.

Magdalene hated the Bone Sea.

The sun constantly stabbed you in the eyes, The sandstorms raked you in the eyes, the Bone Clans were hostile and probably wanted to do something with your eyes. It's hotter than the bowels of hell, water becomes an even more precious resource thanks to how dry it is; It's no small wonder the place is filled with so many dried bones. Magdalene didn't understand how the hell anyone made a living out there. She'd only ventured into the region twice in her whole life; Once out of bored curiosity, which she quickly regretted. The second time she traveled to Alphos searching for work; Again, quickly regretted. The whole place seemed like the Gods were determined to one-up the utter shithole the rest of the land was. Hopefully they're right about the third time being the charm.

Magdalene followed along the open road as well as she could, using her burlap hood to provide decent protection against the oppression of the sun above. She walked awkwardly, her head angled down to barely see a few feet in front of her, lest she go blind from the sands shining sunlight right back into her eyes. She had to trust entirely in Poe to start squawking if any beasts or opportunistic clansmen rose over the horizon.

Before Magdalene even realized it, she'd ended up joining a band of travelers along the same path as her. She panicked for a moment, then identified most of them as northerners like herself, wielding steel weapons, some of them riding horsebacks. At the very least, she was still on schedule. She walked towards the center of the caravan, yet remained a safe distance from any of them. Just in case some beast burst out of the sands and took a pick out of them, she wouldn't be the first to go. Among the travelers she noticed a giant of a woman using a spear as a walking stick, and a well-armored man atop horseback. At the very least, their group wouldn't be easy pickings.

Eventually, the sunlight began to dim. Magdalene turned up her head, only to turn it back down as a flurry of dust blew by, her relief turning into a worse ordeal as the minor dust storm flew by. If anything, the whole ordeal only steeled her resolve for the journey ahead. Once it was all said and done she'd get passage into Exusia, and never have to deal with days of travel and discomfort like this again.

She noticed a camp out on the horizon, just beneath the fabled flying city, which she barely managed to catch a glimpse of through her hood. Honestly expected it to be bigger, but the obscured sight alone was mesmerizing and brought her to a brief stop, before pulling herself together and continuing.

As their loose little caravan reached the encampment, they gradually squeezed together into a line. The Guards weren't just letting anyone in, it seemed. Once Magdalene reached the front, the guards once again crossed their spears just after letting the last traveler in. After fumbling through her bag for a moment, she pulled out the poster that summoned adventurers in the first place, crumpled and slightly wet. The soldiers parted, letting her through and instructing her to head straight to the camp center. Magdalene felt nervous as she walked through the center of the camp, practically a military base, well-armed soldiers glancing at her as she kept her head down, the sight of armored men being far too uncomfortable a memory for her.

She entered the center of the camp, her eyes finally readjusting to the dim light of the interior structure. The building was circular in shape, in the center of the room stood two women, one pointing at a map and practically lecturing the other on various landmarks. Magdalene glanced around the room, seeing several others already gathered and seated. Worldlessly, Magdalene seated herself in one of the further corners of the building, shrinking down in her seat as the room began to fill before the meeting eventually got started.

---

---

Indeed, it seemed that there were a good number of folk privy to the rumours of Queen Tabitha's invitation to her domain and the sanctuary it offered from the dying world upon which it cast a shadow. The loose collection of travelers on the coastal road were largely strangers to one another, unable or unwilling to rely on one another for anything but one of the simplest of theories - safety in numbers.

Artur, for the time being, had counted himself among those numbers - but he'd seen time and time again that it was never wise to rely on that alone, particularly when the recent years had seen the Kaimerians growing bolder in their raids beyond the boundaries of their Kratocracy. For that reason, if not instinct, his sword hand never wandered too far from his scabbard, even as he rode atop the relative comfort of a mule rather than afoot.

What had felt like a light desert breeze mere hours ago had gradually whipped up thicker clouds of dust as their procession moved on, which made Artur particularly grateful for the cloak which had kept the worst of the sun at bay and now provided some measure of shelter against the barrage of dust striking from his flank.

Nonetheless, Artur consciously found himself resisting the urge to reach for his waterskin and wet his mouth - a journey remained ahead of them and the distant outline of the floating kingdom was gradually receding behind the mottled cloud of dust slowly enveloping the coast. Soon, his fellow travelers became mere silhouettes, darkened shadows against the desert winds and left to mutter amongst themselves.

Further along the trail they plodded, weary from travel and the elements. Another hour and the storm had subsided enough that the outline of an encampment came into view. High pitched tents with a certain elegance loaned to them, their canopies holding back the stands in stark defiance of the desert winds. The Queen's general invitation had foretold its presence; how else would her emissaries have been able to treat with them? Exusia remained far aloft somewhere in the distance, now a little more discernible since the dust storm had abated. "The Witch-Queen can keep it..." he muttered, clearing his throat and spitting off to the side. Tabitha's crown was of no interest to him, nor was the prospect of finding an esteemed place beneath some dais to serve at the Queen's leisure. No, she was but a means to an end - if she could offer what he wanted. Swords and spears, he remembered, first and foremost.

Eventually, he found a suitable place to dismount, hitching the mule against a post and making sure that it was adequately fed and watered, then gave it a light brushing and a firm pat. Though he'd appreciated the surefooted beast's service in traversing the precarious desert trails, he had been loathe to name it - from his experience, mounts often died while at war, or on the weary road that came afterwards - naming them just made it too easy to form an attachment. Unfastening his cloak, he departed for the envoy's tent, warily brushing past a half-dozen strangers on his way through and tugging a crumpled poster from his claok. A few of the Exusian guardsmen had likely seen his scabbard, but what else could they expect? They were in the heartland of the Bone Clans, after all.

It was clear to Artur he was certainly not among the first to have arrived, nor would he probably be the last. Off to one side, he caught a glimpse of some strawberry-blonde who fancied herself a cartographer, interfering with the map set out for the excursion. To another was a queerly pale boy prying into the business of a woman who was a giantess by comparison, perhaps literally if her taller, muscular complexion was anything to go by. Another two girls, of differing appearance and smaller complexion had also made their way in, one with a particularly rugged, even feral demeanour to her - it had been some time since he'd seen their like.

Idly, he found a space not so far behind from where Magdelene was seated and began to mutter the lyrics to a ballad he'd picked up many years ago as a soldiering lad. "I don't want no Orthosi shilling, I don't want to be cut down. I'd sooner be willing to make me'self a killing, living off the the Ladies of the Town..."

Traveling from Orthos to the Bone Sea and then towards Hope Passage was an interesting task for Sjalvolki but not a hard one. The Sun Elf knew every single way and path towards anywhere in Deadwood. Hope Passage was the destination. It was located in the Bone Sea, more specifically within proximity of the Bonewater. Without much delay, Sjalvolki rode his horse towards his goal in the shortest time possible. Main roads were avoided as Sjalvolki preferred to ride along the historical route that his tribe once, and still does, take in their annual migration patterns. Those were normally the safest and quickest way to anything, compared to what others would have taken. In the Bone Sea itself, the Wysaro-Fields was the most traveled pathway for the Sun Elf. It was a sea of just sand and dust, with barely any bones to be seen. An oddity for the Bone Sea since that is its namesake, but the acute heat had caused many animals to avoid this small patch of land. Multiple Sun Elf tribes took the Wysaro-Fields in the upper northern part of the Bone Sea in travel towards Ethos or Orthos. No danger of animals or people here since they would be all dead. The heat itself was no issue either since Sun Elves are known for their extreme adaptation and resistance to the most hellish of heated places.

Sjalvolki later joined up into a larger caravan near the coastal roads. Normally, Sjalvolki never would do such a thing but he assumed that they were all for the job. So, the Elf rode alongside multiple others. Sjalvolki took a glance at the party, noticing many others. A band of interesting people here, he noted to himself. Before long, Sjalvolki arrived at the camp. The guards stopped the man on top of his horse, spears tipped at him and his beast of burden. Sjalvolki showed the guards the piece of paper, the invitation, from his pockets. The guards nodded and pointed deeper inside the camp. Sjalvolki rode in as the guards processed the others behind him. Hope Passage reminded the Sun Elf of his early childhood, where his tribe would set up temporary camps here and there in their migration pattern. But Sjalvolki had a task at hand to do, and remembering his older memories was not one of them. The Elf beckon his horse to walk towards the large tent within the middle of the camp.

Sjalvolki jumped off his horse, guiding the horse along inside the encampment. Wishing to not bother anyone with his friend here, Sjalvolki opted to find a nice corner to “park” his horse somewhere. The corner that was not packed with someone was the one that Magdalene was at. In turn, Sjalvolki led the horse to said corner. Thankfully, Sjalvolki had an extremely well-behaved horse, who happens to also be the same age as the Elf as it was his first gift as his birthright in his tribe.

“Hope you don’t mind my friend here. I just have some trust-issues with people coming near my horse...So, what’s your name?” Sjalvolki opens up to Magdalene, turning to the woman as he places a hand on one of the large bags that the Elf’s horse has. Something is odd about this Elf. His movements are shaky, panicked. At any point, the Elf’s body is moving, twitching, and never at ease. But his voice would say otherwise. It is a smooth and calm voice; a delicate one. Nor does he have a dialect of any sort. The way that he pronounces words is largely on-point with those language manuals used to teach others how to read and write properly if Magdalene saw those before in her life. For appearance, Sjalvolki was a heavily armed and armored person: packing chainmail, a kite shield, a mace, a metal helmet, and a composite bow, along with arrows to the side.

---

---

Croix could not help but let slip a small smile as the sand shifted and crackled under his shoes. The unrelentingly hot sun and humid air would, understandably so, be of extreme discomfort to most but to Croix they were continued reminders he was back home. The wind continued to lash at his face bringing him back to reality, as comfortable as he was in the conditions of The Bone Sea, he was glad his cloak and hat were providing some degree of protection. Home anywhere in Deadwoods was as dangerous as it was welcoming.

Croix knew that, all too well. He looked down at his feet to inspect the dried blood on the tips of his shoes and a splatter on his right shin. Some bandits along the road, they did not seem to be tribe affiliated as far as Croix could tell from their markings but they chose to impede him none the less. Though one did manage to barely escape, Croix was satisfied that they would not plague anyone else on their journey, particularly with one likely to call upon such a high volume of people.

Looking back up, Croix brought up a hand to shield his eyes, so that he could marvel at the twin sights off in the horizon. Exusia, the floating paradise untouched by the daily carnage the Deadwoods was known to provide and Hope's Passage almost directly underneath. Croix could not help but find humour in the vast difference of their scale. While one was an almost ethereal haven whos pleasures were known only to few, under it was a fairly standard, somewhat ramshackle encampment. He continued on, as eager to begin the quest now and the potential it had for his chance to spread The One Truth as he had been when he'd embarked.

The guards at the entrance studied Croix with great scrutiny as he grew closer, already somewhat on edge from the influx of all manner of people hoping to succeed where no one else had for untold riches. Not helping was the bug creature that had burrowed from out of the sand moments earlier. Finally, Croix stood before them, his massive frame almost acting as shade for them from the hot sun. He smiled as warmly as he was capable and placed a hand into the breast pocket of his coat, presenting the guards with his invitation. The two guardsmen continued to stare quietly at Croix, one looking down at the dried flecks of blood on his clothing. After a few tense moments, they stepped to the side and allowed the missionary to enter. Croix tipped his hat to both soldiers as he passed, heading for the most impressive looking tent.

It was unmistakable, the gaze of soldiers upon Croix as he walked by the camp towards the largest tent, but he paid it no mind. He could understand their fears, but to him it was merely an opportunity and he would either succeed or fail and The One Being would find another more worthy warrior to further its message. It was almost like something out of a novel when Croix entered, the melting pot of races and people all waiting side by side, prepared to undertake an impossible task. Croix was not much of a people reader but he took stock of all those that would soon no doubt be his closest companions. Some wiry but fierce looking young women, an angry but large woman who if she was standing may almost be as tall as Croix, a capable warrior mumbling some poem or song to himself, a much smaller young man sat next to the large woman and a considerably fairer looking woman who Croix may have seen as a stoic leader type were she not fumbling over herself about maps albeit in an endearing manner.

Above everyone that Croix took note of however was the armoured buglike creature directly in front of him. He had travelled from place to place quite often but his education was lacking and he found himself unable to call upon what type of creature it was that stood with its back to him. None the less, Croix was snapped from his wonderings when the creature began to chuckle to itself about seemingly nothing, a chuckle that grew slightly louder. Though he wasn't sure exactly of the why, the bug's joy was infectious. Croix felt his lips curl into a smile before he too stifled a laugh. His composure failed him as he took a step forward and laughed alongside the bug creature.

What joy! He could not claim with much certainty if The One Being had planned this motley crew, but Croix already felt himself enjoying the strangeness of their presence.

---

The sun beat down pale and grey and hot, bleaching the land beneath it. Dust swirled half-heartedly along the white sand, accumulating on pillars of rocks and piles of bones. In the distance, dunes stretched like mountain peaks, their slopes littered with eviscerated corpses long ago picked clean. Upon one such slope, a donkey lay sprawled, one leg snapped and bent under its flank. The creature’s breaths were slow and hoarse, and with each it inhaled as much dust as air. Its grey pelt was mangey and dotted with wounds, some still fresh, others faded to white scars. A shadow passed over the donkey, then another. It blinked, but blinking brought its eyes no respite from the endless dryness. It could only imagine what dark shapes swept down towards it from the sky above and dug sharp talons into its leathery body.

The vultures descended like a cloud, ripping and tearing at the quivering beast’s flesh as it clung to the last threads of life. They squawked and fussed as their claws and beaks ripped back the flesh of its wounds and began to tear at what little meat was left inside. The donkey tried to cry out in pain, but it could barely lift its head and only dust welled up from its throat. A vulture looked towards the donkey’s face. It cocked its head, and then with a swift peck, the donkey’s vision went black.

Nearby, the sand shifted. There came a great pounding, a boom that made the layer of dust that coated the desert jump. A second later there came another thump, then another. One of the vultures lifted its blood-soaked face from its meal and cried out in fear. The others turned instinctively and spread their black wings in intimidation, perhaps expecting some jackal or other desert beast had come to scare them off their kill. When the creatures saw what was coming, though, they all cried out as one and leapt from their feast to save themselves. One lone vulture, its face too deep into the donkey’s guts to hear, did not move, and soon it felt a great weight rest between the wings of its back. The weight clamped down on it with an unstoppable certainty. Before the creature could cry out, it felt itself lifted and it soared through the air under a foreign power. It cried out as it crashed face-up into the sand.

As the vulture blinked the blood from its eyes, it saw the form of its assailant. Before it stood a gargantuan man, if you could even call it a man. It was taller than any man the vulture had ever seen, taller than most of the great beasts that made their home amongst the dunes of the Bone Sea. Its hand was the size of the vulture’s entire body, and its body was so large it blocked out the sun from several paces away. From beneath a brown hood, a face of stone stared down at the vulture. It was round and slightly lopsided, with a firm, square jaw and two glowing round eyes. The massive man took a step towards the vulture. The entire desert seemed to shake with its weight. Before it could take another step, the vulture absconded, half-flying, half-running away until it took off into the empty sky.

Number Fourteen looked down at the beast before it. Having been sufficiently tortured, the creature had finally died, dust coating its snout and blood coating the rest of it. Seeing macabre things like this made Fourteen feel grateful he was not made of organic material. At least when he died, if he ever did, his remains would be left unscavenged. Such cruelty living things had for one another. Slowly, Number Fourteen scooped handfuls of white sand from the dune and covered the donkey, hiding the torment that had been wrought upon it. Number Fourteen knew his actions were futile. Something else would find this creature, and something else would reduce it to bone like everything else around here. But, as Fourteen saw it, everything was futile in the Bone Sea, and doing something felt better than letting the vultures have their way. Soon, the beast was covered, and Number Fourteen moved on, trudging across the dead landscape towards the south, where the Bone Waters glittered on the horizon like a desert mirage.

Slowly, Fourteen made his way across the landscape, encountering nothing but skeletons and sand. Occasionally, he would stop to admire a succulent, some shriveled agave or thorny cactus that managed to somehow eek life out within this blasted landscape. Fourteen felt no kinship with life— whether he was even alive to begin with was a question best left to philosophers. But having seen such suffering in this expanse of the damned, Fourteen couldn’t help but find any life at all curious. He knew not to touch the plants; he had learned from experience that even his lightest touch would break them. He traveled slowly, each step looking like a labor and accompanied by a tremendous thud that made the coating of dust upon the sand jump.

Eventually, the camp came into focus on the horizon. Above it by some distance, Fourteen saw the city of Exusia for the first time, its tremendous spires and steeples apparent even from the ground. When he saw it for the first time, Fourteen stopped atop the dune he was climbing and stared for a long time. This was it, the place Henrich had told him about. This place, this city in the sky, was where Fourteen had come from, at least according to the old man he had met on the road outside Orthos. Here, Fourteen could find out all he had wanted to know. He could finally find out how he came to be and, even more importantly, his purpose for being in this world. Within his chest, a dullness ached. It was ever-present, a thump like a heart of dread that left Fourteen drained and deeply unhappy. Maybe now, he thought, the thumping could finally go away.

Fourteen approached Hope Passage from the north, trekking across the desert at his own leisurely pace. As he walked a field or so away from the road where pilgrims gathered, he could feel eyes on him. None of those creatures on the road had ever seen something like him— Fourteen had traveled long enough to be sure of that. With each thud of his footsteps, he heard people gasp and saw them point. He made no effort to communicate with them. People...didn’t like Fourteen. They thought he was one of the monsters that lurked in the desert and ate men whole and alive. Looking down at his massive, rugged form, Fourteen supposed it was a logical conclusion.

The crowd parted as Fourteen lumbered to the front gates of Hope Passage. As people moved out of his way, Fourteen could hear them mumble to one another. “What is that thing?” One mumbled. “Should we run?” Said another. Fourteen ignored them. The guards at the gate to the small tent city stood with their legs quivering and their spears pointed forwards. All around them, folk clad in rags knelt and held out their hands in desperation. Some cried out for entrance to the town, others simply for bread and water. As the guards’ attention focused on Fourteen, a shriveled old woman in a shawl tried to slip through the gate inside. She was met swiftly by the boot of another armed guard who rounded the corner. As the guard glowered down at her, the woman hissed and spat blood from her now-bleeding mouth. This guard had a sword at his hip and a pretentious look on his face.

“You there,” he shouted. “Golem.”

“You know... what I am?” Fourteen replied. His voice was slow and impossibly deep, like if the crunching of gravel was made into phonetic sounds.

“Yes, you,” the guard replied. “No one comes in without an invitation. Show yours or be on your way elsewhere.” The crowd watched on, fear and fascination mixed into one. They mumbled to themselves once more. “A golem? I didn’t think they existed!”, “Now how are they going to keep that from getting in? It’s HUGE!” Fourteen nodded and reached for the sack slung around his left shoulder. He untied the top of it and gingerly pulled a crumpled-up piece of paper out of it. The paper had been given to him by Henrich. It was the only thing the old man had given him in their brief time together, in fact. The guard with the sword took a look at the paper and nodded. The other two, legs still shaking, stepped aside, and Fourteen placed the paper back into his sack.

“Thank you,” Fourteen said as he passed through. He walked towards the center of the camp, receiving the same looks as he had from the crowd outside. The soldiers and travelers stopped their chatter and stepped aside as Fourteen loped past. He knew not to make eye contact— people got...uncomfortable when Fourteen made eye contact with them. Fourteen wondered about that a lot. Perhaps it was his lack of a smile, for try as he might his grim stone face would not change expression. Eventually, Fourteen arrived at the main tent and pulled back the curtain.

He had to duck to enter, and when he did he saw almost a dozen others were already inside. Fourteen towered over the rest of the folk inside, so much that his head brushed the roof of the tent and he had to slouch to avoid scraping against it. The folk inside were of many races, most of which Fourteen had never seen. A man with tanned skin and blonde hair stood in one corner next to a horse and a small girl. Near the entrance a large man with a disturbingly large axe laughed with a bug half Fourteen’s height. Fourteen shuffled into the room, stepping carefully to avoid any chairs or people or tables. The indoors were not made for Fourteen— he always bumped into things and sent people flying and objects falling. He was able to move into the corner to the left of the tent opening without causing any harm. For a moment, he eyed a wooden chair, but Fourteen knew no chair in all of Deadwood could hold his weight. Instead, he squatted down, resting his elbows on his knees and trying to look inconspicuous. He was silent for a long beat, expecting everyone to turn and look as they always did. He looked down at the sand beneath them, not making eye contact with anyone.

“Um, hello.” he mumbled.

Time and again had the Dust Mother passed through the Sea of Bones. Her eyes past two dozen paces saw the sand more as a blur of mirage and dirt. She did not need her eyes to see far enough to the far dunes; she could see farther still.

"We do not travel tomorrow." she said. It was all she had spoken that day. The group of caravaneers she walked with held her in little regard. While proud, she was no one's fool. She had not expected the prestige afforded to her by a Kaimerian clan that may have crossed her paths. The gentle ones took her for a senile grandmother; they were incorrect on both accounts.

They take me for a piteous creature, she thought, seeing the faces of the humans and the fair one soften as they witnessed her. She moved slowly through the desert, true, but she did not stumble. Neither did the weight of her wares make her sink into the sand. The sun rose and the Dust Mother rested. In the cool light of dusk and dawn she traveled. No more and no less. Yet thrice or more a day, she seemed to walk past an oxen ankle-deep in the dust as its master tried to pry it free from the loose dirt of the dunes.

The last time she had spoken, she had worn out her welcome. The gentle ones were not like her people. Their flesh was as soft as their skulls. Three oxen fell in the first fortnight, and two more in the second. Their pace slowed with each beast they carved apart for spare meat and left at the wayside. More bones to the sea. The gentle ones offered to carry her belongings, but her belongings were few, and the Dust Mother was not coddled. I was carried before my legs had strength to stand, and you shall carry me when that strength leaves them. Over each beast that fell, she drew up a handful of magenta powder from one of the pouches that hung from her neck and sprinkled it over the corpse, murmuring words in a tongue foreign to the gentle ones. The beasts were loyal. They deserved no burial, but they had done their duty. In turn, someone would say the words when she fell. The Dust Mother had faith enough that wherever this parchment of the gentle ones took her, it would not be so far from her home that none at her graveside would know the words the gods had taught them. She would not buried in her homeland, but she would be buried, and she would be buried well. That solace, at least, she had to believe the gods would grant her.

When the last oxen fell there was fighting between the gentle ones. The Dust Mother sat silent. The sun had boiled their blood and the blood had boiled their minds. One slew another with a sword and was cut in two just as quickly. She sat, walking stick lain across her lap. She held no pretenses about her fate should she come to blows with any of them, least of all the fair one, but a daughter of Kaimeria did not pass into the earth without blood to mark the way. Should any raise their hands against her, she would lame them with a strike as their swords hit their mark. She may need three legs to pass through the dunes, but none alive could make it with one.

As the fair ones screamed over provisions and providence she stared at a lump in the sand. Curious. She stood and walked over to it, brushing the dirt aside. A half-buried donkey. The bones were not a rarity. The kindness was. Other strangers walk this land, she mused. Perhaps it was a loyal beast as well. She dusted its corpse and spoke the words, then left it for the crows.

They slept that night, but uneasily. Weakness. The Dust Mother told them as much, and was told in turn to silence herself before she was silenced. So the pretenses to respect for one's elders had passed. So be it. The desert had burned the honor out of better men than these goldmongers.

It was three days later she told them. "We do not travel tomorrow."

They spoke back, a flurry of fair and gentle words. There was still a chance the horses could pull enough provisions to salvage the caravan. They were running low on water as it was, and further delays would mean doom. They needed to keep going - for fear of the sun or a knife to the throat, the Dust Mother could not deduce from their tone. At this distance their faces blurred into one another. She had not bothered to learn their names. Were their names important, she would read them etched into their bones when they fell to the wayside. She spoke again. "We do not travel tomorrow."

At this they broke away, cursing. They made camp for the night, sharing the sparse jerky they had left. The meat was far too foul and tough for the Dust Mother's teeth, which was all as well for her. The blood soup she'd made from the fallen oxen had not been appetizing enough even for the starving gentle ones. So be it. The stomachs and steel alike of the gentle ones were not as strong as in Kaimeria. She drank in silence. The next morning came and the Dust Mother had already risen. She had been at work since the Latecomer Star was aglow in the east, digging a hole into the desert dirt. The first few stabs into the earth were difficult, the soil burned almost as stone. After that they came more easily.

The fair one shook his head. "You are mad."

"The bones speak. We do not travel today." she said back, simply.

She dug. They packed their things and left her in the sun. The woman did not have the strength to dig deeply. They may have had the strength to dig enough for all of them, had they lain closely and cast their tarps well. There would have been no time nor energy for the horses. The horses were dead the moment they breathed the dust of the Bone Sea.

The Dust Mother laid her blankets over her and laid down in the shallow grave, resting her eyes as the desert sun rose high in the sky, then darkened, then went out completely. It was two hours after dawn, and the sandstorm raged two hours more. When the winds died down she rose slowly, shaking the dirt from her tarp. She went onwards.

She did not sprinkle the twilight dust on the bodies of the caravaneers. They had not died with honor. She spared a touch for the horses, who had served their duty, even to fools, and pressed on.

The inclines grew sharper, and for a moment the Dust Mother let herself doubt. Perhaps it was her time. Then the moment passed, like a cloud across the desert sun, and she was steady once more. What strength was left to her was enough. Exusia. Exusia. It was a soft land, she was sure, but a soft land was better than none, and children nursed on sweetwater could be made to stand the taste of iron. Seventeen sons and a daughter had she born on the surface of Deadwood; seventeen sons and a daughter had she lain beneath its dust. It had been long ago since her womb quickened, before the last war, and before the one before it. She would bear no more children. But she may yet make a home for some. There was that. There was that.

The Dust Mother reached the encampment ten days after the caravaneers drowned in living sand. The guards did not raise their weapons as they had to the others. Even in a land of witches, ones like the Dust Mother did not draw immediate suspicion. She raised a crooked hand to her hood and drew it back, eyeing the two. Hmph. Gentle ones. There was no courage to be had in numbers, and she had found precious few of their kind who had true iron in them. "I come to seek foreign lands," she spoke, drawing forth the paper from her parcel. She could not read the text, but knew the honor of the one that had given it to her. The guards exchanged a look and let her pass, hobbling along with her stick, the dirt of the Bone Sea thick upon her clothes.

Hmph. A bastard's collection lay before her. A son of stone stood taller than the rest, a mountain made to walk and breathe. Strength of oxen in that one, but strength of iron? This was yet unknown. A man had brought his beast in with him, a horse well-groomed. A fair one. Perhaps he knew of loyalty, then, or the least of duty, insomuch as his kind did. The others had left their beasts to graze. Perhaps this was a waking beast. The Dust Mother could've told once, but her eyes had dimmed in her decades. It was no matter. A small husk stood before her, armored in its own skin. She had seen some of their kind before, she remembered. Her third-born had quarreled with them once. She gave him a terse nod and no words further. A laughing man, but he was not dressed in motley. There was something beneath it, yes, something like iron, but perhaps not quite. A godly man, she could tell, though she doubted the power that rested in the altars of the gentle ones. A harrowed man sang to himself, a blade at his belt finer than any of the piecemeal armor he wore. The Dust Mother scowled. It was a fool of a child who kept a toy in better shape than his waterskins, though she could see he was bloodied at a glance. The gentle ones were full of fool's confidence. A girl sat alone with an artificer's arms to her. She had the trinkets of false gods about her neck, and a weapon of false strength across her lap. Another girl sat alone but apart from the other. Her stomach was bare, but even the Dust Mother's dimming eyes spotted no scars about them. Her hips were too thin and her posture too sure. This one was no mother, yet garbed as one. The fashion of the gentle ones perplexed her on the best of days and irritated her all the rest. If you have no scars to bare to the desert sun, cover your flesh. Seventeen-and-one cuts across my stomach, and not a one on yours. Still something in the two girls had some semblance of strength, even if the Dust Mother detected a distinct lack of smack-marks to the tops of their skulls. Two stared at the parchment on the table, as if the writings of men too green to leave their porcelain towers was worth a moment's time. A suckling boy gabbered at them. If she opens her bed to you, runt, then it will be tough to say which of the two of you is more piteous. The last looked to be the scion of goliaths - good, strong folk, if no Kaimerians - and the sole one the Dust Mother seemed to feel an initial flicker of respect for. She sat quietly. Battle-bloodied. Before the Dust Mother spied the mark across her back, she had an inkling of the girl's history. The Dust Mother had seen slavers, killers, lovers, singers, poets, dancers, spies, and crooks. They walked differently, held themselves apart. This one carried the weight of too many. It is not the weight of the spear that bends her back so young, The Dust Mother mused. This one carries the iron that should run in her blood.

The Dust Mother had rarely been in the company of so many gentle ones, and even more rarely enjoyed said company. "Pardons if I am late," she spoke in their tongue, a touch out of practice if serviceable. "The others were lost at sea."

The apology was a formality she doubted the little ones still held to. Guest right was important, even if not to the "gentle" ones. She could hardly expect herself to be called late either, given that it seemed most of the lot had been born a few hours before she found the tent.

The old woman's tone was curt but firm. Late she may have been, but these unbloodied ones seemed to be wasting the luxury of time the Dust Mother had not possessed for a decade, perhaps more. She sat near the front, leaning on her stick, the necklace of bones clattering quietly as she rested.

The children needed to hush. There was work to be done.

Magdalene thought the most difficult part of her journey into the Bone Sea was walking through the sands. Now she saw that the greatest trial was actually sitting and waiting in the most comfortable room in the entire damned desert. As more and more people filled in, the meeting tent gradually grew louder and more rowdy. At first she was able to tolerate the redheaded woman who bickered about every minor and irrelevant adjustment to a map they planned their route on, that was acceptable planning. Then a man, creeping around the room ever so slowly, finally seated himself behind her, only to begin quietly singing,

"I don't want no Orthosi shilling, I don't want to be cut down. I'd sooner be willing to make me'self a killing, living off the the Ladies of the Town...", The man sang, bordering on practically muttering. His quiet, half-effort words buzzed against her ears, irritating Magdalene as she sat in silence.

Then, making matters even more difficult, another man came, bringing in a goddamn horse with him, deciding the best of all places was right where Magdalene was sitting. She leaned over in her seat as the beast was led practically right over her table, concerned that the beast of burden might absently try to start munching on Poe.

“Hope you don’t mind my friend here," The horse's guide began, "I just have some trust-issues with people coming near my horse...So, what’s your name?”

They had extremely fidgety motions as they stood over Magdalene, a nervousness that betrayed the calm and articulate tone of their voice. An elf, probably? Magdalene had few encounters with elvenkind, but his tall grace and loose motions gave her hint to the rumors they heard. Quickly glancing at the horseback stranger, she managed to spot elongated ears on either side of his head, confirming her prediction. Seeing as she already made a short gaze with the stranger, she saw had no choice but to answer his question.

"Just... Call me Maggie, I guess," she answered, before turning her head back forward, averting further eye contact. Though he kept a stoic face, his eyes were just as anxious as the rest of his body language. Something else about his face got her the wrong way, too. Almost too wooden and forced.

Then, as if the meeting couldn't get any less formal, a goddamned bug-person walked in. Maggie heard even less of the... Gee-Sin-Yee? Than elves, let alone that one would be willing to go on such a dangerous expedition. As soon as they entered, they started making a dreadful noise, almost like it was... Chuckling? It's strange, mad chuckles continued as they pulled out a book and started scribbling down in it, gazing about the room. Soon after another man came in, towering beneath his robes and wide-brimmed hat, wielding a massive axe. Once they got seated, they looked over to the bugman, and, strangely enough, began to join them. Great, now there was a horse in her face and two laughing idiots. Making things even worse, a giant made of stone ducked their head under the doorway as they entered the tent, and then the room felt so much smaller, as their awkward walking knocked aside several pieces of furniture in their way. At this point in time, Magdalene felt outright uneasy, burrowed on all sides by stress of the situation. She shrank herself down even further, practically hiding behind her neatly folded arms, desperately hoping that the delegate would get everyone to sit down and shut up already.

Already drained of any energy before their expedition even began, Magdalene hit a breaking point when a gods-be-damned Kaimerian had the unholy gall to walk right in the tent. Despite trying not to make eye contact with anyone or anything, she immediately recognized when they entered the tent, despite being practically buried in furs and wearing a skull-helmet. Perhaps it was the iconic pair of horns, or it may have been Magdalene's own tug of an ancient yet warmly familiar terror rooting itself into a knot in her stomach. The room started to get hot and humid, even moreso than the desert she just crossed. Magdalene could just barely taste the scent of burning wood in the air. She clenched her hands into impenetrable fists, yet her instinct to get up and make a scene was dulled after years of living as a woodswoman and robber. Instead, she just sat there, glaring directly at the Kaimerian the entire time, growing deaf to the rest of the chaos in the circus tent.

The tent quickly finds itself filled up to the brim with a bunch of eye-catching people and things. From just a simple gaze, Sjalvolki could pinpoint a diversity of different species: a bug-thing with a notepad, an extremely large man with an interesting set of clothing and weapon-choice, a much larger entity that is the stone golem, and now an extremely aged Kaimerian that is probably the same age as the Sun Elf. For his own immediate surroundings, the Elf could hear the singing and mutterings of a man. Sjalvolki could spend all day and night observing these colorful persons, but the Elf had a much more concerning job at hand. Sjalvolki turns his attention to his own horse. The tent already had too many people in it, and it likely does not need a horse right now. Before Sjalvolki signals his mare to leave the tent, the Elf digs through a few bags attached to his beast of burden. Sjalvolki pulls forth a tied cloth bag before the Sun Elf speaks a few words in elvish, bearing a distinct Sun Elf dialect, towards his horse. The mare calmly moves between the mass of people and then outside of the tent, freeing up much-needed space for Sjalvolki and Magdalene.

“I’m Sjalvolki,” the Elf notes to Magdalene, translating his native name to a more understandable version in common language. Even then, the name is very foreign and bears a distinct elfish tone and pronunciation. The Elf lowers himself, placing pressure on both his two whole feet as he squats down to the level of Maggie. Sjalvolki keeps a reasonable distance from Magdalene, respecting the woman’s personal space in hopes of not stressing her all too much. Extending his left hand, Sjalvolki offers something towards the distressed Magdalene. The item offered was a small tied cloth bag. The aroma of sweet sugar and apricots (dried candied apricots) permeates the local air. It is a smell that most would find very pleasing, especially for anyone with a sweet tooth.

"So... what led you to accept this invitation to almost certain death? Ehem. How rude of me... I'm Azariah Kravchenko. I supposed we're for the same thing... and if that's the case, it would be better to get to know each other..."

To say the least, Nakala was caught off guard by the small fellow that decided to make conversation with her. If she had to be completely honest with herself; she was hardly paying any attention to the other people who entered the tent as (so far) they seemed completely unremarkable to the woman. Though, to address this fellow, she had to look down because she had nearly a foot and a half on him! It was almost funny, but Nakala wasn't in the mood to crack a smile or some display of emotion that'd make her appear weak. Naturally, Nakala keeps her face stoic as she replied, short and sweet.

"I am Nakala, it is... nice to meet you," The woman introduced herself before she held her tongue at revealing the exact nature of just why she's here. It was just not something that she was willing to share, far too personal. Far too private. "I am just a wandering warrior looking for a home to finally settle." It was likely not that convincing, but one couldn't fault Nakala for lying because, from a certain point of view, it was no lie.

However, some red-haired woman ran up and began fumbling over the map... Nakala raised an eyebrow as the display was probably enough to alleviate some of the awkwardness in her own interactions with Azariah. However, it just kept getting more and more strange as some loon came in singing, and another girl with a massive crossbow and didn't look all that happy to be there wasn't too far away from him - which honestly was the least strange thing about how this tent got.

One of those insects... The Gi-Syn-Yi. Nakala vividly remembers killing a few during her time as a gladiator - Nakala knows that they are fragile without their shells, and killing them is elementary. This was not something that she was going to mention, as the insect came in giggling like it had something up its sleeve. Nakala narrows her eyes, and another fool starts laughing along with it.

Then some moron ups everyone by bringing their horse into the tent, as if it wasn't cramped enough in there.

As this scene became more and more of a circus, Nakala found it harder and harder to keep quiet. The lone traveler's hands drifted upwards towards that hood that she was awfully tempted to pull up. Only so that she could bare her teeth in peace. She threw it over her head as the representative was getting annoyed herself.

"That is enough!" The representative called out... primarily to Hazel as she yanked the map away from her and then announced. "Enough listen up because the Queen wishes to see all of you in person. And she will throw you off of Exusia if you annoy her. And by that, I mean literally."

The lady shook her head as she looked around the room that got awfully quiet and sighed, "My name is Tisa Iruve and I am the Queen's representative for this quest that she has put out..." She mumbled something underneath her breath but it was next to impossible to discern. She shook her head as she said, "She wants to meet all of you in person to discuss the terms of the deal... which means that you will be teleported up into Exusia. However, when you get up there, we will relinquish any weaponry or any materials you can use to cast a spell until your time there is up."

Tisa looked among the group as she added,

"Is everyone okay with that? These terms cannot be negotiated."

---

---

"I am Nakala, it is... nice to meet you," The woman introduced herself before she held her tongue at revealing the exact nature of just why she's here. It was just not something that she was willing to share, far too personal. Far too private. "I am just a wandering warrior looking for a home to finally settle." It was likely not that convincing, but one couldn't fault Nakala for lying because, from a certain point of view, it was no lie.

"Surprising to see a Goliath around these parts..." Azariah looked up and down at Nakala's titanic frame, craning his head while doing so as he was just a little dwarf compared to her. If he kept on doing this, looking up to her this way, it won't be long before he gets a stiff neck. "Because... you know, you lot usually live in the colder places of the world, right? There are some in the place I come from, though the numbers have dwindled over the years."

Karlezek and Goliaths never had the best relations, and the paranoid of the Enclaves had forced many Goliaths that once inhabited their mountains into the hot desert, where they would slowly die out due to it not being the best environment for the giant humanus. This lady though didn't seem to know about that, or perhaps she thought he was human as he had yet to revert to the natural light purple greyish hue of a Karlezek's skin.

"Wandering warrior, huh?" Azariah rubbed his hands together, not noticing that he had gloves on. "Well... I'm just someone looking for a better life without any strings attached."

"Is everyone okay with that? These terms cannot be negotiated."

It would seem that the Queen wished to meet all of them in person, in order to tell the whole mission at hand. And she'd throw down anyone that annoyed her. "I accept these reasonable terms." Azariah didnt have any problem with it; after all, anyone that had an audience with Karlezek Lords and Kings would have their weapons taken for the time being to avoid any assassination attempts. The Queen of Exusia probably just wanted to ensure her safety.

"Looks like we get to see the place for ourselves." Azariah said to Nakala, though this time he didn't look up, as his neck was starting to hurt. "Even for just a while."

---

---

Tisa snatched the map away from Hazel like an impudent child not wanting to share her dollie. The former witch hunter managed to stop her hand halfway as it shot out from behind her back to grab at the coveted map, noticing that yet another detail was off on the western shores of Lanced Lake. She let the look of surprise fall from her face as she politely smiled, the embarrassment clear but the bruised ego hidden, and stepped back from the table to make it obvious to the others that Hazel wasn’t in any position of power—and there were so many others here now than before when she’d started to mess with the map.

The hopefuls that wanted access to Exusia or the riches the Queen would provide were a motley bunch. As Hazel had been talking Tisa to tears about topography she’d watched from the corner of her eye as the new arrivals arrived one after the other. At first the lot of travellers seemed mundane enough as normal human after normal human crossed the threshold. Of course there was never anything normal about humans, especially not the kind who were stupid or desperate enough to seek out quest. Still, things shifted as an elf brought his horse into the tent, and the people that followed—a bug, a madman, the earth, and a mother of monsters— seemed like part of a long setup for a bad joke with an off-color punchline that was only told after two looks over the shoulder. At least the bug and the madman were aware enough to laugh at the gag they were taking part in.

Hazel felt her temple pulse as she stood back now and looked out over the others as Tisa talked, taking the time to study them. Hazel’s hand twitched and rested at her hip, a few inches away from her scabbard, as she watched the Kaimerian broodmother. An Ember Maker primary target was always witches, but that didn’t stop them from putting so-called monsters to the torch when there weren’t any “dangerous” midwives around. Hazel grimaced and tired to shake the thought away, but it’d already sparked. She felt a cloud of black smoke swallow and choke her mind as she looked around the room, seeing a monster and a heretic in every corner as the immaterial smoke began to blind her eyes.

Some devils were more obvious than the others, but any Ember Maker worth their salt could always create one from almost nothing. The Kaimerian and the Gi-Syn-Yi were abominations through and through, guilty simply for existing. The Golem was a creature created by magic and therefore a puppet of witches, best to be ground into sand before allowing them to pull a single string no matter how polite they seemed. While the Sun Elf had bizarre customs and treated a horse like an equal, the real problem was their fae blood meant they likely had a knack for magic or could pass on a knack for magic and should be best turned into a short lived star for safety’s sake. The Short Man skin seemed to have changed since he had first arrived, hinting that he was some kind of shifter and a danger to all of society. One Human had covered herself with the markings of strange arcane runes and writings, flimflam sold by charlatans and a sign of a corrupted mind.

The other Humans were guilty by association alone, if not for with these devils then for with the mages they had all sought out. The best thing to happen for all of Deadwood would be for this tent to catch ablaze this instant and turn all into ash, and if not that then perhaps she should pull out her sword and start lopping off heads until they overwhelmed her. Hazel winced and coughed, the ghost of old hatred taught to her by the Ember Makers escaping from her lips. Stupid thoughts implanted in her brain by stupid people, which made her all the more the idiot for ever believing in them. Destruction only led to more empty destruction, while understanding had actually been fulfilling and there was so much more she needed to know.

Hazel gave the ground an apologetic and guilty look, which might’ve been misread as a negative reaction to something Tisa had said as it lined up right when she mentioned relinquishing materials for magic. An accidental betrayal, enhanced by Hazel smoothing out her stachel and tightening the latch. She hadn’t expected them to actually be taken to Exusia and given an audience with the Queen, and while she understood the precaution she couldn’t imagine anyone being insane enough to attempt regicide. Assassinated rulers always served as rallying points, strengthening the resolve and the unity of a people. A better way to kill a ruler was to make their people hate them and those who had supported them. It’d been the go-to tactic for Ember Makers when a provincial mayor gave them pushback.

There was a moment of hesitation as Hazel considered that perhaps she should be the one worried about getting killed, going weaponless and magicless before a Queen that people declared to be insane. The thought that she could be killed was insane in its own right. She paused and huffed at the ridiculous idea as a few of the people agreed to the terms and conditions.

“The terms are fair, Lady Iruve,” said Hazel softly, tossing a glance towards the Gi-Syn-Yi. She didn’t have the heart to point out that they were, in fact, not fair, thanks to some of her compatriots having natural weapons like the Gi-Syn-Yi’s pincers. Instead, Hazel just linked her hands behind her back and hoped that by playing nicely the delegate would let her have one more look at that busted map.