Dementa offered them the best in the Badlands.
Wine, that is. Not pussy. Not at first.
Israfel lowered himself to the spotted furniture of a couch in the tent's solemn interior. He smelled a bit of Munirah myrrh when he sat on it; there was no dust, contrary to the location of the Canyon. He was calling it Camp Deathlie.
The sandstorm was now upon Helladeep, and in the deep gorge where Dementa's minions nestled, all the marauders had run into their tents, some of which were halfway up the mountains side, like giant creeping yellow ants. The heavens went dark: a rustbrown shade that engulfed all of the camp. In Dementa's own head-tent, Rafel clutched to the cup the Dread-Red Skullrider offered.
"What's this?" He took a sip.
Dementa turned from offering other goblets—very possibly treasure they had thieved off caravans hitchhiking through the desert from Florentia north to Titans Landing—to the girls and assured Rafel she had no desire to hurt him.
