<div class="floatleft">(https://i.imgur.com/YANAdYl.jpg)  </div>Red-gold sand stretches as far as you can see, the towering afternoon shadows of the caravan looming over the grooved dunes and scrub brush like night-stretched wraiths.  Those shadows first appeared like shy fae in the pre-dawn glow before the sun crested the horizon, when the guards prodded the last cold from their hands with long, thin steel rods to stir the prior evening's campfire to light, and those shadows are lengthening as if the sun's heat is melting them from every living body on the long march southwest, inking the desert sand with the water and exhaustion it wrings from every walking thing with its withering heat.<br/><br/>Soon the sun will be high and those shadows will have disappeared between the feet of each beast, and the scout eagle will return from one last circle to report to its master what it has seen, and the caravan will make camp when the master designates it best.  Hopefully they will make the oasis; if not, they will drink the same tepid water they have carried for four days, and they will curl up in the makeshift shade of their canopies and smoke from long pipes and, if they are lucky, share a bottle of some grain-based alcohol from the last town.  They will sleep in that shade until nightfall, when it begins to cool, and they will walk again by night.  They have done so for almost two weeks, and the memory of the last town with a well-- its iron-tinged water rich and cold in the shade that day-- will be a welcomed one, a promise at the end of this blistering persistent fire from the sky and sand.<br/><br/>And so it is through the morning, willing the next dune to yield, wishing for a breeze, that the caravan leader crests a hill, and chatters in the native tongue of the land, and other guards spark alight like tinder to flame with energy.  They have seen something in the distance-- but not a cause for cheer.  A sand storm.  Many among the caravan filter to the front, while many traders and caravaneers wait patiently-- and with absolute trust in the trained eyes of those men-- for word of the sandstorm's sudden appearance.  It is massive... a truly remarkable storm... and although it has manifested a few miles away, they are wary.  You have endured one sandstorm already on this trip, but this one-- by the gods-- outranks them all.  Fortunately, it looks a long, long way away, and should be of no threat.<br/><br/>Should.<br/><br/>Among the local pidgin speech, you are able to discern key phrases from the lookouts and lead drivers.  "Fast"... "Big"... "Gods".  Holy symbols are produced by a few, a couple of spyglasses are passed about as lookouts spread apart to find the highest dunes at several angles.<br/><br/>In common, a familiar trader speaks as ambassador to the non-natives-- Goran is his name, a bearded Chelian of surprisingly amicable disposition.  "The sandstorm on the horizon there.  They are alarmed because they did not see it at the last rise.  This is... a bit unusual, for it to have emerged in the past... what, hour?"  The Chelaxia wipes his nose, looks as if he would spit if his mouth were not already dry, and seems to rethink it and sip from his canteen instead.  "They are reading the land, gauging its direction.  The... lower-minded among them are praying.  No offense to your religious sorts.  But they think their gods will be at fault if it comes this way, or of accolade if it does not.  The odds are that their gods will get credit for horseshit."  Goran chuckles and checks the cap of his canteen carefully before resting it at his hip, testing his close-trimmed moustache for any lingering droplets.  "Anyway... those scouts are looking for the most secure campsite, in case it does.  We may stop early today.  Hopefully not much delay... I've spices due soon."<br/><br/>The sandstorm is an incredible sight, and for the better part of an hour, the slow parade resumes its pace, then scouts, then resumes its pace again, before finally word comes back in the chattering local tongue that they will camp among some rocks ahead.  Scouts and mercenary guards-- a couple on camel-back, and a dozen with crossbows or polearms, fan out to secure the site.  Rocks surely mean wildlife, and no wildlife here is without defense, but they are exceptionally wary in case of a desert orcs or gnolls... while the rocks they have selected are little more than a small field of boulders, it is possible that another has had the same idea.<br/><br/>*<br/><br/>OOC: As stated, you have weathered a sandstorm before, and it's not... NOT... to be taken lightly.  You may aid the scouts if you wish.<br/><br/>Please provide at least 1 paragraph describing your character's general demeanor during this trek so far and their reaction to the storm.  Assume that you know each other by name, at least, but are only acquaintances thanks to he size of the caravan and your respective interests having divided you up until now.