The Water Merchant

                                    

                                          
    There was one basic rule for a Vossarian during the worst of the southern dry season: avoid being above ground. The southern deserts of Roya Vossar were no place for a northern jungle-dweller to be. But, per the nature of his career, Zha-ba'zhorae had no choice but to ignore that sensible rule. The desert township of Lok'arva had sent a request to the Matriarchs yet again, and he, as an esteemed water merchant under their command, had to oblige the request, dangers be damned. And the trip to and from Lok'arva was proving particularly hazardous of late. Four other water merchant caravans had been claimed by the sands to date; their bodies and their precious cargo lost. The job of a water merchant was hazardous, he knew that for himself, but such a high deal toll for one rather tiny mining town was unusual. The Matriarchs were wise to be suspicious of the new request. They had no desire to send more innocent merchants to their deaths, but there was the chance Lok'arva's requests were genuine. If not, however... 

                          
   So, of course, they had chosen him to lead a small caravan of senior merchants to Lok'arva to deliver and to investigate. And why shouldn't they? He had experience with the deserts in a way few others in his ranks could claim. He would go prepared, over-prepared, and rightly so – when the danger was indeterminate, it was best to plan for anything. The huge form of his Idijin pack beast, and the beasts of two fellow senior merchants, were each loaded down with additional water and supplies; his travel gear and kit was in pristine condition; and the Matriarchs had hired a small squadron of locals from Istev, a sister-town to Lok'arva, to act as guides and bodyguards, all of whom were poised to meet him at the halfway point of Feragral. After all, sandstorms were not the only threat he might contend with on the journey.
                          
    Confident, though dreading the journey itself, he and his fellow merchants had set out.
                          
    The fluxes between the heat of day and the chill of night were always far more intense when one hadn't been on a trek of late. It took a few rounds of the sun for the unbearable heat to feel more like a malicious nuisance than torture.  The wind might as well have been a fourth companion, an angry hatchling, whipping up sharp sand and flinging them into his four eyes. His damp facial mask, meant to protect his lungs from the granules, had to be shaken, cleaned, and re-moistened routinely with his pack beast's spit. It was gross, it smelled questionable at best, but the spit had the useful trait of not evaporating as quickly as water, and its viscous nature trapped sand far better.
                          
    They continued like that for seven solar rounds, and no trouble met them to worsen the journey. Then, the halfway point of Feragral, tucked in the shadow of an oasis, appeared on the horizon and offered a welcome respite. To pay for their brief night stay he traded some of the excess water with a local glass-shape, a grizzled old female he had dealt with many times before who had one dead moon eye but bore a superior sense of poise he quite liked – not to mention her impeccable fashion sense. Her brilliant, iridescent copper scales, large horns decorated with dangling gold jewelry and silver rings, and richly dyed blue fabric attire sent a clear message on her status in Feragral. Her work matched her finery; the elegant pieces with their vibrant hues and wild shapes would fetch a hefty price back home. Such finery could not afford to be lost to the sands. Southern glasswork was as valuable up north as water was in the south. 
                          
     When asked about the other merchants who had come through prior over a shared meal of dried meat and northern desert fruits, she was forthcoming. They had indeed passed through Feragral, life and cargo intact. They had traded their water for goods, and one merchant had been sent back north to deliver while the rest had continued south to finish their deliveries. But that was the last she had seen or heard of the Lok'arva-bound caravans. 
                          
    "You've no idea what might have happened to them?" asked Zha-ba'zhorae. 
                          
    "Oh, I have plenty of ideas, Zha-ba," she grunted back. "Too many, and none of them good."