I live in a world of fire and sand. The crimson sun scorches the life from anything that crawls or flies, and storms of stinging salt scour the foliage from the barren ground. This is a land of blood and dust, where tribes of feral elves sweep out of the salt plains to plunder lonely caravans, mysterious singing winds call travelers to slow suffocation in the Sea of Silt, and selfish kings squander their subjects' lives building gaudy palaces and garish tombs. This bleak wasteland is Athas, and it is my home.
Another band of refugees tried to cross the dune sea last night. The collapse of their oasis city has resulted in chaos; one of them we found mad from thirst lived just long enough to say their reserves were emptied within a few hours, the resident families killing each other for a filled water skin before fleeing the invaders. As I follow the trail of baking bodies in the sand, I wonder just where these fools thought they were going. There was nothing in that direction for a hundred miles, no water or food or shade. Just the death that was with men every moment in this hellish place. My clan gathers the bodies we find; not for burial. There are ways to distill the precious water from a person, old machines we cling to and hope never fall into disrepair. The gallon or so that can be wringed and rendered down can be all the difference.
