Rake trudged down the road from Sandcrest, claws tapping nervously at the straps of his pack. His wounds—clawed rents across his scales and bruises that pulsed like molten fire—were a reminder of how the world outside his workshop didn’t play fair. Sand still crusted the edges of his orangish scales, and though his tail swished eagerly behind him, a part of him whispered that he should have stayed home.
But the other part—the louder part, the one that dreamed of lost caverns and unexplored ruins, of heroism and adventure—told him this was where he belonged. He was a Seeker now. Green, yes. Inexperienced? Certainly. But he was no longer just the lizardfolk tinkerer hidden away in his family’s shop, smelling like oil and scorched cactus. They had a new companion now—Ryk, the half-giant who seemed as steady as a mountain, and as slow. The man’s axe was enormous, far too large for a normal human, and Rake had been watching it out of the corner of his eye since they first met. It was a weapon of craftsmanship and destruction, two things Rake respected.
The first day out, Rake’s confidence soared like one of his firepowder rockets. The desert stretched endlessly around them, the sun oppressive and bright, but they had a wagon full of water barrels along with the girl and a mission: to see those barrels and girl safely to Ashenvale. Purpose made everything better. Purpose meant they were Seekers—people who mattered.
Night fell over the dunes, and the desert grew silent. Rake tinkered by the campfire while Ryk leaned on his massive obsidian axe.
Then the sand shifted.
“Something’s moving,” Ryk said.
Shapes burst from the dunes—hulking forms with glowing blue eyes. They looked like golems, their rough bodies carved from stone.
Ryk didn’t hesitate. He charged, his axe a whirlwind of destruction, cleaving through the creatures with brutal efficiency. Rake waded into the fray lashing out with dagger and tooth against their foes.
The battle was brief but fierce. When the last golem fell, its stone exterior shattered, revealing a skeleton beneath. The eerie blue light in its eyes flickered, then vanished.
“Skeletal sentries,” Asher murmured, crouching by the remains. “They were buried here, most likely to protect whatever is in there.” he said and gestured toward a jagged opening that had appeared where the sand had shifted, leading into the earth.
Darian flew his familiar, returning with its scout’s report. “It’s a tower,” Darian said. “Old. Stairs leading deeper—and more of those glowing eyes below.”
Rake’s heart raced. A buried tower filled with secrets? This was exactly the kind of discovery he’d dreamed of.
The group tended to their wounds and made some notes and markers about the buried towers whereabouts before preparing for rest.
The following day brought no rest. They were back on the road, dust and wind stinging Rake’s scales as he walked beside the wagon. The skeletons still haunted him. Not their faces—they didn’t have faces—but their eyes. Why did they burn like that? Who had left them there, forgotten? The questions sat uneasily in Rake’s mind, jostling with his thirst and exhaustion. He glanced back at the tower and promised himself one thing: he would return. Whatever waited below wouldn’t stay hidden forever.
Then, on the horizon, movement.
At first, it was just dots—shapes against the sky. Then the screeching began, a sound like a knife dragged across slate. Harpies.
A merchant caravan was caught in their talons, the great winged creatures diving, raking claws through canvas and wood. The merchant’s camels bolted, terrified.
The group froze, indecision rooting them in place. Luckily it only took a few short exchanges before a decision was made.
Rake took in the chaos as they charged. One guard lay still, his blood seeping into the sand. The merchant cowered under his wagon, clutching a broken spear. Above, three harpies screeched and laughed, taking turns dropping stones on the remaining guard, who swung his blade in desperation.
Ryk roared and leapt into the fray, his obsidian axe cutting a deadly arc, while Rake darted beside him, blades flashing. Behind them, Darian and Asher stood like sentinels, their magic siphoning life from the desert. The very air shimmered as they drew power, twisting it into blasts of dark energy.
The harpies shifted tactics, their songs rising into a haunting melody. Rake felt the pull—a soft, insistent whisper in his mind—but fought it off. Ryk wasn’t so lucky. Time and again, he staggered toward the harpies, his eyes clouded. Yet somehow, just as their claws reached for him, he snapped back to himself.
One harpy miscalculated. As Ryk came to his senses beneath her perch, he grabbed her mid-flight and hurled himself off a high outcropping. They crashed to the ground with a thunderous thud.
Then, the desert itself seemed to shift. The heat around Rake vanished, only to return in a sudden wave. He turned to see Asher, eyes glowing with focus. Following the druid’s gaze, Rake saw it—a fiery manifestation of the desert, a blazing spirit that hunted the harpies through the air, igniting their feathers.
By the battle’s end, the Seekers stood victorious, but not unscathed. The second guard was lost, and Darian lay unconscious, a jagged rock beside him.
The group composed themselves and retrieved the poor merchant. After a brief respite and some haggling over needed goods, the two groups parted ways.
Ashenvale lay before them just a few more hours in the desert. What might lay in store for them there.