Wil pored over the sheet of parchment spread out across a large flat rock, trying to make sense of the lines of stick-figures that covered it. He’d been given the letter in Altaruk to deliver to the elf Toramund, lord of the Silver Springs Oasis, and the fact that it was written in this curious cipher only made him more curious as to its content. Perhaps there was a little paranoia motivating him too, but in Athas suspicion was considered more of a survival trait than a character flaw. Eventually every one of the adventurers hired to guard Rhotan Var had had a look at the letter, even the thri-kreen Ku-ki’cha, who inadvertently poked a hole in the parchment. Slowly, patterns were identified and the document’s overall meaning became clear: Toramund’s son Ravi had been taken by some group called the ‘Toothcutters’ in Tyr and had been killed by them.
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After staying overnight in the underground room, the caravan survivors and the party gathered together what items of worth they could salvage and set off back to Altaruk. Rhotan Vor was immensely pleased to see them, welcoming the adventurers into his house and plying them with drink. After they had taken their fill of food and drink, he gathered them round and outlined his wish to locate the fabled tomb of House Madar. “All I need is some trustworthy folk who know how to handle themselves in a fight, and if we were successful in finding the tomb, rewards would be considerable.” The party agreed enthusiastically, and plans were made to depart the following day.
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Tracks, some made by sandal or boot, some made by non-human creatures, led north from the wrecked caravan. After following these for a while a tower came in sight. Once arrived at its base, they could see that it was in ruin but there still seemed to be a set of stairs leading down to a sturdy door. Fen wasted no time in hauling it open and stepping inside. He saw a larger room, containing a cistern and some broken sarcophagi, and among these what he guessed to be the survivors of the caravan, bound hand and foot, guarded by five silt runners and a larger lizard-man – a ssurran.
The scene took him slightly aback and two of the little lizard-folk raced up and stabbed him with their vicious spears. How did that happen, he thought, then his legs failed him and he fell.
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Ku-ki’cha loped over the crest of the sand dune and paused, looking. So that is Altaruk , he thought. It had not been a particularly long or difficult journey, as his usual hunting grounds were in the Great Alluvial Wastes to the north of the town, and he knew the territory well enough to avoid being ambushed by bandits or devoured by silt runners. Still, he had not survived five years under the pitiless sun of Athas without understanding that survival was sometimes as much a matter of luck as of wisdom and experience. Once again he delved in his pack with his middle set of arms and retrieved the small bone and chitin necklace. Rikus had been unlucky, he thought, as he turned it in his claws. Rikus had come from a place like this, a slave fleeing into the desert who might have perished like so many before, had he not met Ku-ki’cha’s clutch. The big, tough mul had proved his worth as a hunter – and friend – several times over before – well, what was past was past. Ku-ki’cha refocused his purplish eyes on the settlement in the distance, and reflected that he knew little of the ways of the folk who lived in such places. Gripping his crescent-bladed gythka, he set off again, noting that there seemed to be others on the road below.
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