Esame watches from the shade, feeling the breeze already picking up, as the massive sandstorm roils miles away on the horizon.  The others, with Melody deftly dipping out to the front of the guards, find themselves among reluctant, but determined, heavy archer-cavalry and footmen as they descend from the rise of their sand dune toward the rock-laden plain below, where a tumbling bundle of loose scrub-brush topples ominously past a reptile's skeleton bleached by perhaps decades of relentless sun.  The soldiers fan out, and in a matter of minutes, they are a quarter-mile away, but still visible enough before the sand hits, black and silver-gleaming figures in the valley below.<br/><br/>Pallam's armor begins to sear from the desert sun, but glints like fresh-minted coin, and at least one of the footmen gives a nod and a righteous grin at having such an esteemed comrade-- the phrase "son of a bitch" either losing its meaning in translation or being assumed as a token of bravado.  One of the crossbowmen shuffles a few yards off to Atsila's right, offering cover-fire should anything break free, and muttering a foreign phrase of assurance in his native tongue as he checks his bolt, slaps the rigid weapon confidently, and grins broadly with crooked, honest teeth.   Melody seems to be trailed by a couple of halberdsmen whose enthusiasm may be for the prospect of battle, or may be for her firgure... who can really say?<br/><br/>They are, perhaps, forty feet from the rocks when they first hear the familiar chittering of scaly carapace, and there in the shade-- invisible until this distance, thanks to the glaring light from the surrounding sands-- they make out the hulking armor of a black scorpion, burrowing at the base of a rock  with its foreclaws, and snapping greedily at the sqealing form of a desert mammal-- perhaps a rat of some kind-- as it excavates its shallow, recently-relocated den. There isn't much battle, and one well-placed sting brings the squeals to a slow decrecendo as the creature goes silent, then still, and slowly begins being pulled apart in fleshy, wet chunks.<br/><br/>The scorpion is four feet from claw-tip to tip, and six from the curve of its tail to the tip of its claw's apexes, black and shining in the shade all over, even its gem-like eyes, except for the bands of taupe-sand markings over its legs and abdomen.  The men hold up, readying their aim and studying the shadows, and point silently... a moment's study reveal two more of the creatures lingering in the dark, digging with like purpose for more prey.<br/><br/>One guard grins and whispers back to the others.  "Good.  No gnoll-men.  We kill these and take the spot."<br/><br/>Aim is taken and bolts are unleashed with a series of mechanical pops.  Some bolts clatter against rock with the distinct clack of metal and stone.  Some hit shell, punching through easily and finding soft meat.<br/><br/>If you have a ranged attack, or a preparation action, you may take it at your leisure.  The party has winning initiative, and the giant scorpions are taken by surprise.