August 22nd, 761, 4:09 PM; Day 158 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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The heat sat heavily in the air around you, permeating your clothing and every layer of your consciousness. The sun bore down on you from above, burning your exposed skin and blinding you with its light. The desert wind whipped sand through the air and into your clothing, where it stung the eyes and rubbed flesh raw. But there was something honest about the discomfort. It helped melt away the dark air of Kamarn-Quse, which seemed to cling to you like a heavy mist even as you left the city behind.
Carter had tried to pass the mantle of leadership to Harris upon leaving the city. When the larger man had refused, Carter's first order had been to ride as far as was safely possible before making camp for the night. Though the entire expedition had been drained and exhausted, it was not something that was argued much.
The breakfast table the next morning was a somber affair. Those who came, spoke rarely; those who spoke, spoke softly. Most were content to eat quickly and in silence, before leaving to pack up their tents. And if any of them had, in their dreams, found themselves back in that dread city, alone with their own demons, they said nothing of it.
The expedition rode on.
Carter rode at the front, seeming mostly unscathed from his time in the city. There was less enthusiasm in his actions, perhaps, and he no longer smiled, but he fulfilled his role as expedition head as well as could be asked for. He kept a sharp eye on his surroundings, always planning ahead to the next leg of the expedition, and carefully ensuring they were headed the right way. His orders were crisp, clear, and carefully thought out. And if he rarely spoke otherwise, save to Kuzan for navigational assistance, perhaps it was merely because of the responsibilities on his mind.
Charles Devereux rode alongside him. Before, the professor had madly scribbled away as he rode, seemingly unaware of anything around him; now, Devereux seemed to have developed an extreme interest in the environment. He rode casually, sometimes cheerfully, sometimes somberly, sometimes with no emotion at all - yet, he no longer wrote, just stared out into the desert. He had not asked for his book back from Andre. He hadn't even mentioned it was missing.
Sarari kept her role as lookout, her keen elven eyes sweeping across the sands for any hazards that might be encountered. She spoke no more than she ever did, but sometimes Charles could feel himself being watched, and find her eyes upon him, her gaze as intense as the desert sun. She would stare at him for what seemed an eternity, before some question from Carter would turn her gaze away, and back out to what lay ahead.
Dieter, for the most part, stuck by Kuzan's side, but though he would joke and banter as before, his heart didn't seem in it. Oftentimes he would lapse into silence, staring down at the hump of his camel. On occasion, Kuzan would catch him rubbing his jaw, as if it still pained him, though any real damage had been magically healed long ago. Kuzan once spotted the Lamordian holding his rifle, running a finger down a hairline crack in the muzzle, but Dieter didn't mention it, or ask the priest to repair it.
Remy seemed to wander aimlessly about the expedition, often riding near Professor Theroux, but rarely talking to anyone. Instead, he stared out into the distance, unseeing, deep in thought. Sometimes, he would write in his new notebook, trying to work out some tricky linguistic or magical problem. Other times, he would constantly cast worried glances behind him, toward the back of the expedition.
Professor Marchand-Renier rode there, slumped and unresponsive. He had not come out to breakfast that morning, nor had he shown any interest in the food Harris had brought to him. He had lay wordlessly as the others had packed up around him, and had barely mustered the energy needed to mount his own camel. He now sat limply on the magic beast, his eyes half-closed. Had these been creatures of flesh and blood, it seemed likely that the linguist would have fallen behind the expedition, or perhaps even fallen from his mount, and been lost in the desert sands.
Harris took up the rear, ensuring the professor would not suffer that fate. No matter when the others were up and about, Harris always seemed to be there, standing as a silent sentinel over the entire expedition. His countenance was grim, and dark rings were under his eyes, but there was an aura of stability about his presence - come what may, he would be there, guarding.
And last came Menetnashte. As always, she did not speak.
Carter called the procession to a halt as it began to grow dark, staking out a campsite slightly sheltered from the elements. The expedition set about pitching their tents, while Carter built a large fire in the center. That completed, the members of the Menetnasthe Expedition looked about each other, then slowly and wordlessly retreated to their own corners of the camp.
Though you had left the city behind and traveled on, it seemed some still carried Kamarn-Quse with them.
