Salt Sun, 7th of Tishru ii Ux. I arrive in the village of Mirqushur.

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Salt Sun, 7th of Tishru ii Ux. I arrive in the village of Mirqushur.

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"Moon and sun, friend! You have my deep and many-sided thanks."
I walk the long perimeter of the town, looking it over closely. One villager catches my eye, digging about in the salt sand.
She's found a bit of scrap— some kind of odd trinket. When I approach, she wheels on me and damn near drops to her knees.
I don't know what it is, but I don't like these statues.

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At the north edge of town, I hear someone calling me over.
Surely enough, there's work to be found. It's not long before I stumble upon one of the village's "Parliamentarians". Something smells wrong about him. The desert salt has dried out my nose, so I can't figure out just what it might be.
I followed a caravan south across Moghra'yi, with half a mind to rob them and finish the trek myself. Dawngliders got to them first.
Mirqushur might smell of leather or fruit if it didn't just smell like poison salt. The desert has been drinking vapor off my tongue for days, and I feel dull and slow with thirst. Half a waterskin left. I have half a mind to axe the first human I see.
They've got work, though, and are quick to point me to their kith.
I'm told the Issachari are a tribe native to the salt pans, and can be recognized by their names just as easily as their scarlet-and-white garb. Blood and salt, maybe. And snakes and oil and fire. This one has an odd look about them, but the sun's high and the shadows are deep, so I can't get a good luck under the kufiyeh they wear. I'll look around the village instead, and talk to those two. Maybe I can trade this scrap of witchwood for a meal.