Once upon a time, Pharrah, once the verdant and fecund jewel of the Aerkha Realm, had withered into a barren and boundless desert for over a millennium. Nowadays, a motley crew of strangers, conspicuous in their lack of belonging, had set foot in the land. The Xhar Rax tribe, battle-hardened by the constant influx of adventurers to their homeland, cast a watchful eye from afar, peering through the harsh sun rays with their keen sight. In the ancient times, the Rah and Ville rivers, which snaked like serpents through the plains, originating from the west's Phar Mountains, and flowed into the Ivory Sea in the east. While the Azzer and Azzur rivers sprang from the Dharrun Mountains in the southwest and flowed into the Ank Sea.
One day, as tales passed down from generation to generation, blood-red and then golden-yellow sands rained down everywhere. The magical rain continued, obliterating cities, temples, hills, and plains until nothing remained. Meanwhile, the fog enveloped the neighboring Endarrun Empire, swallowing up traders who dared to venture through the curtains. Left to their own devices, the people of Pharrah remained isolated. During these dark times, the canyon separating Ankhrya from Pharrah was submerged, and three bridges were erected over the Pharrah Pass, which had transformed into a canyon linking the two seas. Legend has it that mysterious dwarfs built these bridges, but that is a tale for another time.
After that fateful day, Pharazzon city was constructed on the opposite side of the bridges, and Pharrahville was established on the Pharrah Continent. Over time, the hub of commerce and life shifted to the axis of these two cities. Nonetheless, the Yilanderils, the primary inhabitants of Pharrah, remained rooted in the desert's interior, living in scattered tribes. Despite the inhospitable environment, they clung to the hope that one day, Shah Maran, the God of Snakes, who had purportedly dozed off for a millennium, would awaken, and the country would revert to its former glory.
"During her voyage on the ship, Allendra perused several tomes on the continent, but one chilling tale stood out above the rest: the legend of Shah Maran. This mythical behemoth, endowed with serpentine coils and formidable sorcery, sent shivers down her spine. Allendra scrutinized every portrayal of the serpent god, vividly imagining its corporeal form. Its sinuous, serrated midriff and expanding nape evoked the likeness of a cobra, a creature she had never laid eyes upon. Yet, what sent chills down her spine were its diamond-sharp fangs and whip-like bifurcated tongue.
"Put that book down this instant," Bishop hissed.
The swarthy, hirsute man donned a black cowl that was drenched in sweat.
"By the nine hells, we should have avoided this infernal desert in the height of summer," the warrior grumbled to the mist elf.
"We've been trekking for three days and have not spotted a single living creature, not even a vermin. Only these cursed sand dunes that stretch to the horizon," Raaz replied.
The mist elf's countenance bore few beads of perspiration, for his skin was enshrouded in such a manner that no part of it was visible. He resembled a mummified relic. Their skin was radically distinct from that of humans, being extraordinarily sensitive to the sun's rays. Allendra knew this was a boon. Furthermore, she noticed that Baaz was also encased like a mummy. Had he been an ordinary elf like the others, he would have simply draped a scarf over his mouth and nose to ward off the sandstorms. But both elves had enwrapped their fingers and hands in thin gauze. Although the little girl shared the same facial features as the other elves, she was now convinced that Baaz was a mist elf. Summoning her courage, she veered off to join Baaz, who was wandering solo."
"You can't deceive me," he sneered. "You are a mist elf, with that delicate complexion and finely crafted façade, hoping to stay concealed. Perhaps your disdain for your kind motivates your guise, or you despise them," he said, his voice quivering with anger.
Baaz examined the girl and finally offered a genuine smile - a gesture that, by his standards, was a friendly response.
"It's true, I loathe my own race," he said with conviction. "But my motive for wearing makeup is something else entirely."
"What is it, then?" the girl inquired.
"I wear it because I do not grant the right to live to anyone who sees my true appearance," Baaz replied without hesitation.
"Why?" she pressed.
"It's a matter of principle," he replied gravely. "A being, be it human or otherwise, is nothing without principles. Now, leave."
The threat in his last sentence was enough to prompt the little girl to scurry away and seek refuge with the others.
"We're resuming our journey," Bishop declared.
It was the third day, and the sun had passed its zenith. Initially, they had intended to travel at night, but they had not accounted for the bone-chilling desert nights of the Pharrah Desert. The daytime heat averaged forty degrees, but plummeted to minus ten degrees at night. Suddenly, sandstorms erupted, intensified, and, on occasion, generated perilous whirlwinds. Due to the mist elves, they traveled slowly, taking six-hour respites during the day and three-hour breaks at night.
Water, the elixir of life, was scarce in the desert. Baaz and Raaz continually scrutinized the terrain, seeking possible sources of water amidst the golden sands, blood-red clay soils, and listening intently to the ground. Yet, they had yet to chance upon any viable water source. For three days, they had trudged over endless sand dunes, hoping to discover an oasis in the scorching wasteland.
Bishop possessed the divine gift of conjuring water, yet he obstinately kept this knowledge concealed from the group. To him, the Lord of Darkness, Therion, only heeded those who suffered for his cause. Thanks to the bigoted and unyielding priest, they suffered greatly from thirst on their journey.
On the third night, Bishop scrutinized parchment maps with a sextant to chart their course. When questioned by the girl, he curtly replied, "We're headed north."
As the night deepened, the chill grew more biting, and they excavated a pit at the foot of a hill to establish camp. They kindled a fire, and the ogres and orcs grew agitated. Though their hides lacked the sensitivity of mist elves, they, too, were creatures of the night who shunned the sun. Revolt seemed imminent. Allendra sensed it. The loathing in the ogres' eyes augmented day by day. The little girl, who was beginning to comprehend their rudimentary speech, suspected they cursed the black-robed priest in private. Unlike orcs, ogres were not simple-minded and subservient. They were egocentric beings who revered strength. To them, Bishop did not appear commanding. It was the mist elves who truly terrified them. Allendra knew that, if even a single mist elf was absent, the priest's head would have been taken long ago.
That night, a yellow crescent moon hung in the sky. It was the moon of Averndil, the ruler of the firmament.
"In three nights, there will be a lunar eclipse," Bishop murmured.
At first, Allendra did not comprehend that the man spoke to her. In the shadows cast by the fire, the black-cloaked priest's hideous visage appeared even more fearsome.
"And then, you will disclose the temple's whereabouts," he asserted.
Allendra nodded and tugged the hood of her cloak over her face. She trembled and had no notion of what to do. She was afraid to ask the man any queries because he had deemed many of her previous questions during the sea voyage foolish and had thrashed her mercilessly.
"In an ancient melody that could only be sung by a soul turned to stone, a blood-red river would surge forth, cleaving the ivory bridge in twain and revealing an archaic serpent," read the book Allendra held at the onset of the enchantment.
Allendra struggled to comprehend the contents of the ritual, and as she memorized the intonations, her hair bristled and her stomach churned. The enigmatic words, etched into her mind in an unfamiliar language, sliced through her reason and soul like an invisible blade. It was an indescribable sensation, one that threatened to consume her entirely. Only memories of the fleeting, idyllic days spent with Pal kept her from succumbing to the abyss.