The faint silhouettes of the twin moons, Ral and Guthay, hang in the air, the merciless mid-day sun baking the landscape to a scorching temperature. Kestrekels flap their wings lazily, circling a caravan as it snakes its way through the dunes. A massive shadow darkens the landscape as an enormous winged threat passes high above. The wind whips up the sands, stinging the eyes of the travelers far below; chimes ring in the air, and, as if on cue, a number of silhouettes appear on the far ridge. The shouts of the mercenaries ring in the air as the caravan sees to its defense, but their faces are grim; outnumbered, dozens of miles from civilization, supplies running low, it’s unlikely any of them will escape the dreaded Belgoi. Above, the kestrekels begin to circle lower- they, at least, will sleep with full bellies tonight.