Dragon Realm Scorch

With his borgren's reins in one hand and his map in the other, Guster trekked through ‘Traveler's Prison,’ a canyon in Eastern Alva that was true to its name. Hundreds of pillars and ridges divided the center of the canyon creating a confusing labyrinth for those unfamiliar with the bright orange and red striped terrain. A constant warm wind kicked up a thick cloud of dust, choking his parched throat. He raised a bandana over his nose and lowered his derby hat's brim to shelter his eyes. Flecks of grainy sand stung his exposed skin as the gale became stronger. The wind swirled faster and harder the further he pressed, until its impenetrable force halted him entirely.

A booming voice bounced off the canyon, echoing around him. “You know you are not welcome here, Slave Catcher!”

Guster anticipated this level of hostility from the canyon locals. Luckily, they didn't kill him outright. “I’m not on dat sort of business today.”

“Your word crumbles as quickly as the sand we walk on,” the voice responded.

“Yeah, well I've fought against a few earth mages, so I know sand swords can get de job done,” called out Guster, still unsure what direction the voice came from.

After a strain of silence, the wind walls subsided and from the cloud of dust approached several figures. Dune elves. Dark skinned, small framed, with long dreaded hair either bound on top of their heads, or left to drape down their backs. Gold jewelry adorned their pointed ears. One wore rich brown robes tied at the waist with a white sash, the attire of an earth mage. Each elf stood balanced on the back of large sand serpents; gold scaled reptiles with white, armored platforms where their riders stood. The serpents surrounded Guster’s wagon, hissing and baring their fangs. Finally, one last elf approached on his own Sand Serpent. Visibly older than the first elves, he wore vibrant purple and red silk clothing and jewelry. In one hand he held the reins of his serpent, in the other a bramberwood staff carved like a snake clenching its jaw on a sun. A decorative headdress of glistening red phoenix feathers adorned his head.

“Chief Drokaz Newsun, it’s been a long time. How have you-” started Guster, feigning friendliness in his voice.

“What is your game this time, Slave Catcher?” asked the chief in a dominant tone despite his apparent age.

“I told your kin dat I ain’t here on dat sorta business,” Guster said innocently, raising his hands. “Listen Droky, didn’t I smuggle your kin out of de slave camps durin’ de War of Chains?”

“You did,” an annoyed Drokaz admitted.

“And didn't I lead dem White Cloaks through de tunnels of Isa City to launch a surprise attack on de queen?” Guster continued to plead his case.

“It is why you are alive right now,” Drokaz grimaced.

“And wasn't I de one dat introduced your son to his wife?”

“Actually, no, that wasn't you.”

Guster buttoned his mouth at the mistake before continuing, “Well, two out of three ain’t so bad!”

“What do you want, Guster?” hefted Drokaz, tired of the bounty hunter’s apparent feats. Guster took hold of a canvas blanket covering his wagon and threw it off to the side to reveal

a cache of spears, swords, and shields. The finely crafted steel radiated in the glare of the sun, and a gasp of thirsty wonderment came from the dune elves. Guster smirked at the awed elves. “Well, now dat I have your attention, dese weapons come from my contacts in de Rutug Bazaar. Dey are all yours…” Guster held onto a dramatic pause. “If I can get some info from y'all.”

The chief did not flinch at the site of the weapons, but narrowed his eyes at the name 'Rutug'. “The Rutug Bazaar is known for Issian contraband.”

“Droky, always de downer.” Guster frowned. “You aren’t in Isa anymore. You are a free elf and your kin can wield any weapon dey want… includin’ weapons from de Issian Scarlet Guards.”

At the mention of the 'Scarlet Guards' a resounding clatter could be heard from the elves dropping their armaments.

Guster lowered his mask and lit a bliss stick, exhaling the smoke. “Listen, we both know you Newsun could use de extra protection. I’m not de only slave catcher in de business and my truce isn’t going to last forever. I need info dat ole’ Guster knows you have. Get my drift?”

Drokaz rubbed his chin before signaling his subjects to unhook the wagon from Guster's borgren. “We'll take the weapons, what is the information you need?”

“Uther de Ironsoul. I know he passed through your desert recently, and I need to know anythin’ your scouts have on him. Where he's been and where he's goin’?”

“My scouts saw him enter the Citadel of Keepers. That is all we know, now be on your way.”

Guster remembered hearing tales of the Citadel of Keepers from drunk patrons of cantinas he

had passed through. The greatest of libraries that held the history of Draak Terra's people. Once public, it had since closed its doors after the mages took over during the Arcana War. Now only those of the highest credentials were allowed near its ancient texts and tomes. But how and why was a former slave like Uther able to get into the Citadel? The answer, Guster surmised, would put him one step closer on Uther’s trail.