As Slythe had flown off in that grumpy, haughty way the mustard dragon had of making every little request a total chore, Kiel and Zeph had shouldered their packs and started the short trudge down a sand dune to a tiny little camp full of canvas tents that were clustered around an even tinier watering hole. Like, there was a bit of grass somehow clinging to the sand around the water's edge where Neme's reflection rippled, but this was like no place Kiel had ever seen.
He didn't like the way his feet sank into the ground, man, it was like being on the ship from Marport to Espur - only worse, 'cause instead of solid wood under his feet that just happened to roll with the waves, the whole ground moved. Ew.
“Hi! Hey, man, how's it going? What's up! Hahahaha, hi!” It had looked like the entire camp had turned out of their tents to greet the pair, which still only made it, like, less than a dozen or something. One was a Zanaryan woman that looked like she couldn't have flown if she'd tried since her wings were weighed down with, like, a bazillion rings, but most looked like they'd be Therian or Nymph or maybe even human.
When asked where Ishmael Peters was, the dude who'd posted the request for help, the small group parted to reveal a guy that looked about thirty-five. He limped forward, his leg bandaged with blood still seeping through, and three fresh scars splitting his face diagonally. Kiel realised then that a lot of the camp's residents were sporting similar bandages, and it kinda freaked him out a bit. Okay, so, like, none of them had combat training apparently, but he was way glad Zeph had come with him, you know?
“Okay, so... that Ishmael guy said to head south, right,” Kiel grumbled after they'd been scouring the sand for tracks for, like, ever. “But, like, are you sure this is south, man, 'cause I'm totally not seeing any lions.”