Chapter 1

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The desert, with it’s pink-golden sheen, seems to spread infinitely to the east. Rhynn, looks through the wavy air to the west and makes out what appears to be a small stream of smoke.

”The sun will be setting soon, I'm debating whether to travel to the smoke to the west to see if it is a friendly encampment. Shiro, what is your analysis?” he commands.

”Battery power is currently 19.9 percent,” Shiro chimes.

He travels on, knowing if his battery loses charge completely, he will likely not be able to make it through the Dunelands to the North on mission schedule. Photo-charging his Revision 4 Dremmer simply takes too long, and the photo-kinetic system on-board would be too slow.

“How far to the smoke?” Rhynn asks Shiro.

The node triangulates the distance based on perspective and relative velocity. “It is an estimated 21.1 qcu to the destination.”
“How much charge will that take?” Rhynn demands.
“.2 percent Rhynn,” Shiro answers.
“And to Oxblood?”
“19.3 to 19.5 percent Rhynn.”

“I sure hope this group is friendly, or at least not Immelvir qass-chisse…” he thinks to himself as he starts toward the smoke.

---

As he comes within range of the camp, he sees two figures around a fire. Seeing no sigil of Immelvir, he breathes a sigh of relief.

One of the two appears to be an older man, dressed in a long gray cloak. A full white beard flows out from the folds of his cowl, and his hands are dark as obsidian. The second appears to be in his late twenties, wearing a fine, floral print, linen kimono and is accompanied by a tiny, white puqqa. Once he nears, the younger turns his head to get a look at him. The old man seems unconcerned, continuing to tend to the food he is cooking.

Rhynn slows his Dremmer to a stop just outside the camp and surveys the scene. There’s a small yurt on the east side of the camp, with some wineskins and several earthen jars of various sizes up against it. A small fire is burning in the center of the camp, as well as smoke rising out of the yurt. Just beyond the fire there is a small rack that seems to be drying qass skins, next to a sizable pile of thorny sun-wood. About 10 cubits to the left of the fire are two Sutherland horse-bitches. He doesn’t notice any weapons or sigils, and the young man’s face seems more curious than anything. He exits his vehicle.

Still not turning to face him, the old man comments, ”We could see you coming from 10 qcu off, and hear you from 3. Your runner really kicks up some sand.”

”It’s that bad huh?” He replies.

”I wouldn’t say bad, more, obvious…” the old man adds.

Rhynn looks puzzled.

”You are traveling through the Dunelands from the south, headed to Oxblood and you’re in a hurry,” the old man asserts.

”You judge well old man. A Sona of Sutherland is ill. I need to get to Oxblood to get her Extract of Lion’s Mane, then back to Ardenn.”

The old man nods. As the conversation wanes, the puqqa gets uneasy and begins to growl at Rhynn.

”You’re right Kiko, the stranger hasn’t properly introduced himself,” the young man interjects.

”I am Rhynn of the hamlet Ardenn,” he states, “and how are you called?”

“I am called Erme by some,” the old man says, “and my fellow travelers are Jorinn and Kiko the puqqa.”

“Do you have a land? I noticed those are Sutherland horse-bitches. Are you Sutherlandic?” Rhynn inquires.

Jorinn lifts up his left hand revealing that he is missing the first section of his smallest finger, the Mark of the Nortmann. “As you can see, my loving father is a true Nortmann, and has chosen to burden me with his scars.”

Rhynn directs his attention to Erme, “And you old man?”

“Oh, I’m so old now that I can’t seem to remember my land...” he trails off.

“Well I don’t feel comfortable tarrying with strangers with secrets. I’d better move on.” Rhynn opines.

”I see. Well, this rev is concluding and you’ll be needing a place to rest your head tonight. If you keep going, the only other company you’ll run into aren’t going to be friendly Sanders. Foreign folk have been coming to the Dunelands lately, and they don’t seem well intended.”

Rhynn puts his hand to his chin and thinks for a moment, “Shiro, are there any known Sanders camps from here to Oxblood?” Rhynn inquires.

“Sanders are nomadic, no known encampments.” Shiro replies.

Rhynn thinks for a moment and stubbornly accepts Erme’s invitation. He goes back to his Dremmer and gets what he’ll need for the night, logging the conversation with Shiro.

”You wouldn’t happen to have a dust alchemer would you?” Rhynn blurts, easing any tension.

“A question well worth asking.” Erme chimes.

”You seem hungry.” the Erme says, “We’ve just set some sandspit to boil. You’re welcome to join us if you’re willing to hear an old man babble. And if not, maybe a little sand bervin will loosen the wax in your ears.”

The old man picks up one of the wineskins resting at his feet and pours four healthy portions of sand bervin into delicately carved, sutherland birchwood cups.

“Old man, are you senile?” Rhynn asks, “Is the puqqa to imbibe with us as well?”

“If you are refusing your portion, I will gladly give it to the puq. The first portion is for the Dunic Phantasm; Sanders say sand bervin is his favorite offering, so with every toast they pour the first portion into the sand.” The old man retorts, “Come to think of it, since your Dremmer made such a raucous mess of his land, I think it would be fitting for you to make the appeasement.”

“You believe all that ancient babble? Why should good wine go to intoxicate the sand?” Rhynn deflects.

The old man looks him dead in the eye and places two cups in his hands, “What does it matter to you what I believe?” He hands the third cup to Jorinn, “What do you believe Rhynn?”

The camp goes quiet while Rhynn contemplates, looking into the fire, the bubbling sandspit, unnoticeable before, now seems deafening. After a moment, Rhynn looks across the fire, locking eyes with the old man, and reluctantly pours the wine into the sand. He watches the rusty-brown bervin splash onto the golden sand and quickly flow in thin, spidery veins beneath it’s surface.

They all raise their cups and nod to one another, thankful that they have good company. “Who are you?” Rhynn asks Erme gently.

“Some call me Erme the Whisper, I call myself I, other than that, I am who I am.” he states as walks over to one of the horses and begins to gently pet her on the back of the neck. “Rhynn, have you ever heard the tale of these most unfortunate creatures?”

“I can’t say that I have.” he responds.