Setting: The scrubland desert. Xerophytes and hard wind over desert pavement and the coldest of nights and the purest of sun. Roll d10.

1: There’s a cairn of piled stones. Around it are four desiccated corpses, head-in toward the cairn and feet pointing in each compass direction.

2: There’s a small copse of trees out there in the scrub, but they’re all made of iron rods and the leaves are all differently colored glass bottles.

3: A long section of mesa is on fire. No brush, no wood, just perpetually alight. Something is seeping out of the hillside to keep it going.

4: Every time someone takes a step, a parallel footprint forms a yard to the left.

5: On the flatland, beneath a grove of scrubby trees, are the no-longer-smoking remains of a few huts. A litter of emaciated gnoll pups emerge and follow you.

6: Every once in a while a huge shadow sails over the party, despite the hard cloudless sky.

7: At a trailcross is a sun-blackened elf, barely breathing, staked out spread-eagle on the hardpan.

8: Down the trail wobble three mules. Someone has tied their tails together.

9: The top of a hill is crowned with an outcropping of granite, with well-worn metates hollowed into the slab. Each is filled with warm blood.

10: The hushing wind, just for a moment, carries with it the jarring sounds of battle.


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