Road Trip to the Dragon Isles - The Cactus Forest

02 Deepkolt 349 AC

It takes about an hour for the storm to completely die. Arthur and the others are on their way within half that time. As sand settles back to the ground around the wizards' tower, the party makes its way north. Loose and shifting dunes gradually become hard-baked rock and dirt.

The group makes good time. Arthur leads the way on Nightrend, with Agnes, Granite, Davaa, and Altan following on camelback. Phineas moves smoothly along, his Across-the-Plains-inator, chugging away with a constant whir that sounds like a fly trapped inside a tent flap.

Nightrend hates it, moving away several steps to the side every time Phineas gets close to it, which amuses Agnes every time it happens.

The camels don't care.

Granite announces that their little caravan should reach the Cactus Forest by nightfall.

Arthur chuckles and pets Nightrend's neck. "How's everyone holding up?" Arthur looks back, checking on the group. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm looking forward to a good night's sleep and a nice meal." The paladin looks around, scanning the area for creatures that may be hiding nearby but aside from a couple of desert hawks and the occasional lizard, there isn't much to see beyond sand, dried mud, and rocks.

And beyond the sand, dried mud, and rocks, the Cactus Forest rises into view. It grows ever larger as the party approaches, its green-barreled vegetation spanning the width of the valley ahead. Tall, multi-limbed succulents covered with sharp, stabbing needles stretch for as far as the eye can see.

Agnes adjusts her seat with a quiet groan. “If I never see another grain of sand again, it will be too soon,” she mutters, brushing dust from the sleeve of her dress yet again.

Davaa squints ahead, one hand shading his eyes. “Forest means water,” he says simply. “Or at least life. That’s good.”

Granite rumbles from atop his mount, voice as steady as ever. “Also means cover. Good for us… especially if Zalthex or Rohzgan decide to go back on their word.”

Phineas fiddles with a knob on the side of his Across-the-Plains-inator, "Too bad we didn't bring that Nicholas fellow. Boy had a good head on his shoulders and a wizard, even a Black-robed one, could come in handy."

Altan, his eyes fixed on the obstacle growing ever nearer, leans forward on his camel's howdah and asks, "How are we going to get though that?"

"I would have liked Nicholas to come as well but I think I had already pushed my luck in the tower. I didn't want to overstep more than we already did. I have a feeling it's going to be a long, slow process going though all of this." Arthur stretches in his saddle and pets Nightrend's neck again. "It would probably be a good idea to take one of our extra cloaks and wrap it around the lower legs of the animals. It won't stop the needles completely but it will be better than nothing."

"Technically, they are spines - not needles," Phineas replies. "Unlike most plants, they grow out of arelores."

Davaa sighs, "It 'technically' doesn't matter which they are when they're stabbing into you, Professor."

Agnes covers her smile with one dainty hand.

Granite swings down off of his camel. "This will be my third trip through, first time leading a group through. There are paths but we are going to have to go single file and walk the animals. We just need to find one."

The two Khurs dismount. Davaa adjusts his greatsword, which reminds Altan that he hadn't yet returned his borrowed mace.

Arthur dismounts from Nightrend. "If the paths are visible, I can fly up and look for them from above which would probably be faster." He grabs his shield, slipping it over his arm and calls upon its magic. He slowly rises into the air.

From above, Arthur can see that what looked like an impenetrable wall is actually a sprawling maze. Paths, several of them, snake between dense batches of dquat and thick-bodied, barrel-shaped cacti and towering, many-armed ones. Most of these trails were obviously made by animals. Others are wider and appear to be man-made. The closest of these is one-half mile east, it's entrance partially hidden by a cluster of leaving cactus trunks. The path curves sharply and follows the edge of the forest almost back to where the party is before curving around to the north.

Arthur rejoins the party and tells them what he found. The group makes their way around to the trailhead and enters the Cactus Forest, threading the path between the towering succulents. As the sky begins to tint with the pinks and oranges of sunset, they find a campsite that has obviously been cleared by previous travelers. Several large cacti have been cut down, sawn into shorter sections and stacked to dry in the sun. This cactus firewood has had nearly all of their spines removed.

Davaa takes some of the wood and start a fire. Granite and Phineas help Agnes set up the tents. Altan warms up some dried fish and rice.

Arthur sits and eats with the group. "How's everyone holding up?" He slowly chews enjoying his food after a long day of travel.

For several seconds, nobody answers.

Agnes exhales slowly as she lowers herself to the ground, legs criss-crossing in front of her as sets her bowl in her lap. She laughs once, softly, "Ask me again after I've slept somewhere that isn't trying to trap, stab, bury, or dehydrate me." She brushes her hands off on her dress and lifts her spoon. "But, this helps."

Altan smiles, "You honor me, Lady Agnes." The Khur looks over at Arthur as he scoops more fish and rice into the next bowl before passing it to Davaa. "Pass it down, brother." Back to Arthur, "Despite our late start, we made good time. This path was a good find."

Granite nods, "Aye. Well used, though. We should post a double-watch, just in case."

Davaa passes the bowl Altan handed him to Phineas.

"All-in-all, it could have been a worse day, my boy." Phineas replies. "And what's more, look at this place! Absolutely fascinating! Remarkable terrain! Adaptive flora, natural trail systems, evidence of prior harvesting—oh! And that cactus wood!” He gestures at the fire. “Efficient, low smoke, high burn consistency. I really should collect a sample—”

Agnes laughs, "In the morning, Professor. For now, everyone should get some sleep."

"We may be in a desert, in a maze of cacti and creatures but... I wouldnt want any other people beside me right now." Arthur reaches into his back and pulls out his goggles. "I don't mind taking first watch." He stands and stretches, his back cracking from wearing his armor and riding in a saddle for so long. He looks up into the night sky, "It is a really beautiful place for how much it wants to hurt us," he chuckles.

Night falls hard over the desert. Unlike the howling winds of the sandstorm that enveloped the wizards' tower in the Sands of Time this morning, there is barely even a hint of a breeze, just the weakest stirring of air coming out of the north.

03 Newkolt 349 AC

Hours pass. The sky deepens from the red and orange of sunset into the deep blue-black of night. The finest pinpricks of stars, silver Lunitaria - just a few days past full - and the crimson remains of Solinari are all that break up the vast expanse of darkness overhead.

Granite keeps the campsite's fire burning to ward off the chill of the night but low, so as not to give away their position.

Then, the smell of smoke drifts in, but not from their fire.

Arthur puts his cloak on to cover his silver armor. "I'll look at what it is." He floats skyward slowly, hoping to catch sight of the source, hovering just above the tops of the cacti.

Granite notices his departure and begins rousing the others, indicating that they should stay quiet but to start getting ready.

Arthur floats forward, just barely clearing the sharpest spines.

Then, they come into view.

Two lizardfolk crouch beside a small fire. The flames are low, fed by dry cactus and scraps of mesquite. Above it hangs a blackened iron pot, suspended from a crude iron hook.

The lizardfolk are tall and slender, with scales like a crocodile. "More. Need more - strong batch this time." One of the creatures uses a stick to stir the mixture, while the other slices chunks from a length of cactus and tosses them into the pot. Each piece splashes as it falls, releasing a sharp, bitter-green scent into the air. A bubble floats to the surface and bursts, releasing the tell-tale odor of fermentation.

Arthur floats back down to the group and whispers to them "Two lizard folk cooking chunks of the cactus in a black pot. It smells fermented. We have a few choices we could ignore them, talk to them, or kill them. Are lizardfolk nice? Or are they agressive?"

Agnes shakes her head. "Depends on the tribe. Some keep to themselves. Some trade. Some…” she shrugs slightly, “…eat whatever wanders too close.”

Phineas, whispering but clearly intrigued, adds, “Also worth noting—they’re brewing. That suggests settlement nearby. You don’t make that sort of thing without a reason. Or an audience.”

"I drank some lizardfolk whiskey once. Most disgusting, godawful tasting brew I ever come across," Granite says. "It put my on my @$$ for three days. Worst hangover I ever had."

Davaa chuckles, "Whatever we do, we don't want to sneak in. They need to see us as people, not prey."

Altan shrugs, "Plus, there's only two of them and six of us. No matter what we do, the odds are in our favor."

"Alligator-looking lizard folk," he mutters. Arthur thinks for a moment, "Well, I say we  approach in a friendly manner and try to speak with them. If they try to attack, we defend ourselves. Who knows, they may just be traveling like us. Altan, Davaa, stay in the middle of the group. Agnes and I will take lead. Granite, Professor, bring up the rear."

The group moves out, threading their way between the towering cacti white and faint red moonlight filter through the branches of the spiny plants.

The smell of smoke and the chemical scent of whatever it is the lizardfolk are brewing grow heavier in the air.

Soon the orange glow of the cook fire becomes visible again through the gaps.
Two figures crouch beside it.
The lizardfolk are exactly as Arthur described—broad-snouted and thick-tailed, more like upright alligators than snakes or lizards. Their scales catch the firelight in dull greens and muddy browns. One stirs the black iron pot while the other slices cactus flesh into wet chunks with a curved stone blade.

Both of turn to face the group as Arthur enters the clearing. It holds its hands out to either side of its body. It grumbles, its voice muttering in the common tongue, "Many travelers, this road, so late at night."

"My name is Arthur. We noticed your fire and wanted to make sure everything was alright. We mean no harm." He gives them a smile, "Sorry to cause any alarm so late at night."

The lizardman cutting the cactus chunks lowers his knife. He squints toward the group. His tongue flicks out, tasting the air. "Many warmbloods. Travel armed. Come quiet. Usually trouble."

The one stirring the pot leans forward, eyes gleaming in the red and white moonlight. "No fight wanted. Just make drink. That all."

Cactus-Cutter speaks again, "You lawkeepers? Tribe hunters? Traders?” His eyes narrow. “Or thieves?”

"Just making our way to the coast, just wanted to introduce ourselves and see if you are traders or just travelers before turning in for the night." Arthur keeps his arms away from his blades to try and show peaceful intentions.

Pot-Stirrer tilts his head slightly, nostrils flaring as if he is tasting the air. “Travelers say many things before sleep,” he hisses in a low, measured tone. “Traders, fewer lies. Bandits, the most words.”

Cactus-Cutter slices another chunk of cactus and tosses it into the pot. His eyes flick briefly to Arthur’s hands and then to the rest of the group behind him. “No caravans come this far off the salt road,” the lizardman says. “Not at this hour. Not without escort.”

Pot-Stirrer leans forward, "You smell of travel dust and steel,” he says. “Not of salt merchants.” His eyes narrow slightly. “So tell us, warmbloods. What kind of travelers make camp near our fire without knowing whose fire it is?”

"We set up camp earlier this evening, then noticed yours and just wanted to see who it was. Sorry if we interrupted at all, we truly mean no trouble."

The two lizardmen exchange looks. Finally, Pot-Stirrer speaks, "You talk calmer than raiders. Most softskins see scales and scream 'monster'. They throw fire or steel. You came with words. That is less... annoying."

Cactus-Cutter hisses, something that might be the equivalent of a laugh. "We are not traders. We gather the sap of the thorn giants - make drink, Strong Drink."

Pot-Stirrer interjects, "Sometimes too strong."

Cactus-Cutter hangs his knife on his belt. "You may keep to your fire. We will keep to ours. We have no... how you say... quarrel, with travelers heading north."

He pauses, "But if you thieves, murderers, or scouts for slavers, the desert usually returns the bones." 

"Not every person covered in scales are monsters, steel should always be a last resort or in self defense. But again, sorry for interrupting your evening take care." Arthur leads the group back to the camp to finish his watch before turning in for the night.

Cactus-Cutter lifts one clawed hand in a small gesture of farewell. “Safe trail, Arthur.”

The party returns to their own camp beneath the towering cacti. The distant scent of fermented cactus mash drifts faintly through the night breeze, mixing with smoke and dry sand. At some point in the night, the lizardmen depart, vanishing into the night and the desert from whence they came.