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The snow in Mystique and the rain in Medonia had been abominable, and Elan had thought nothing could annoy him more. Then he'd left the walls of Arakmat to leg his way through the desert to Syl'rosya.
The suns were merciless in the desert, the air so dry each breath seemed to suck the moisture from his lungs and the vigor from his legs. He wore only an undershirt of white linen and breeches, but still the sweat poured down his brow, stinging his eyes and leaving salty tracks on his cheeks.
Should have taken the caravan, should have taken the caravan, should have taken the fething caravan! the elf silently cursed with each plodding step, too sore and tired to utter the oaths aloud. The caravan had wound its way through the Lauryl woodlands into the sands of Arakmat, and Elan supposed he ought to be grateful for even that much. The troupe leader had been a consummate haggler, extorting over 50 crowns from the elf for the journey from Mystique to Arakmat. The elf had paid the fee, but that was not the end of it. At Arakmat the human had tried to fleece him for another 50 crowns, and after the short, profanity-laced argument that ensued had thrown Elan from the caravan before entering the city.
And now here he was, wandering the desert with no clue as to where he should be heading. The candlemarks came and went, while the heat built and built and the sands stretched on and on. Just as he was about to collapse from sheer exhaustion, the elf raised his eyes from the endless track before him and spied the dark cloth of some sort of shelter in the distance. Excitement and relief washed over him, and he hobbled towards the encampment as quickly as his legs would allow.
"Serale," he called as he neared the group, a motley mixture of human, dorin, and even a gnome for good measure. "Do you have some water to spare, by any chance?"
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