The Burning Sands Desert
Another scorchingly hot day. More sandstorms than one can keep track of. Less water than gold in a thief's targets pouch. As Raznik looks around the dry scenery, he breaths deeply of the hot air, a reminder of when this desert was his home, a time long gone now after years of travel in the wet land of Derevaan. As he walks through the dunes, he is reminded of the harsh lifestyle that one is forced to endure if you wish to call the Burning Sands home. To those few who can, they find that it can be rewarding in mysterious ways.
Such is the case today. As Raznik climbs his way to the top of a particularly large sand dune, he can begin to hear the sounds of hammers on metal, loud, boisterous conversation, and the sound of large herd animals braying. Quickening his pace to a jog, the sand underfoot hindering his progress, he reaches the top to reveal an old sight he hasn't seen in over three years; a genie caravan.
Half a dozen enormous covered wagons float on misty clouds that don't seem to touch the ground and both Djinn and Jann genies litter the campground as well as a few groups of smaller humanoids, some with their own carts; likely travelers seeking refuge with the planar travelers. As Raznik makes his way into the camp, he is greeted with a wineskin and a leg of roast meat of an unidentifiable source though the succulent flavor it releases as he bites into it makes him not care. As is the usual custom with the genies who call this desert home, the Vizier of the Djinn leading this caravan comes to welcome him and share news of other lands and give some in return. The banter back and forth mostly consists of the prices of trade goods and any particular interesting people of note that have passed through lately.
The Vizier does make note of one person however, a sorcerer and slayer of the Efreeti that had terrorized the tribe of the former bandit Jatzee, is here in the camp and is the current excuse for the feast that is being doled out to all those in attendance. The vizier catches sight of the man in question and points him out to Raznik and excuses himself to tend to other matters.
The sorcerer doesn't look like he's a native of the desert though. Wrapped head to toe in black strips of cloth and covered by a black cloak with the hood up even in this heat, it's a miracle the man hadn't already passed from heat stroke. Anyone who lived in the desert for any length of time knew that black clothing was almost as deadly as the poisonous creatures or sandstorms that called the sands their home. Currently, the sorcerer seems to be fending off the inquiries of an eager dark haired man with loose dark red pants, a matching cape over a bare chest, and the bronzed skill of someone who's spent their life growing up in the harsh desert sun.
Holding up his hand to stop the man's questions, the sorcerer lethargically lets the words roll off of his tongue as if half asleep, "Listen, I'm flattered but I'm dead tired, and have had a day that would annoy a stoic monk let alone someone of my demeanor. If you insist on getting your questions in, at least allow me to get some wine and food in me first."
This message was last edited by the GM at 10:38, Sun 08 Apr 2012.