Of Cinderplane Barbarians

As the third sun skims the blurred horizon of the red dust expanse and the Thirk lizard coughs it's morning song, a caravan of riders are an hour into their hunt. Their quarry? Blue Basilisk. Nana Mog whispers of sweet nectar from their calcified eyes, a prize sweet enough for a dawn pursuit.

Cyana Bloodmorrow, High Garg of the Cinderplane Barbarians is inked with the Skorn tatoo, a sign of her ranking and a message to all who may stand against her that she has spilled blood on the sand more times that the sun Vesp has arced the sky. Her man slave Virl rides by her side, clutching a brace of Zenfarr spices his mistress enjoys so much. Crushed into Basilisk bladder, it creates a most delicious soup.

Few children survive the harsh Cinderplane, with its infinite dust storms and desert shriekers that stalk the cloak of night. As all children must do, Cyana was thrown into the fiery crucible of this untamed land and forced to track to the Ebon mountains, retrieve one of the wretch totems from its peak, and return. Her first run in with a Sharn Spider released the barbarian inside and she still carries the carapace sword to this day.

A movement in the dry distance. Cyana halts the party and licks her sore lips. "Bas tund kild," she barks. A Basilisk rears its head and flicks out a darting tongue. "Dren yond kun lo, sintar," she grunts, dismounting. She admires the bright blue streak that runs down the creatures temple and down its back. Virl, sensing an opportunity to impress his mistress, lurches forth with kondi spear in hand. Within seconds he is on top of the creature, thrashing madly with squeals of delight. The High Garg watches her man slave's body become grey and cracked. The statue falls to the dust.

A whip of the neck and the lizard is sprinting at her. She avoids it's gaze and vaults the beast, landing near its tail. She drags her blade down its back and cries a curse of her ancestors. Blood flows like honey from the wound. She cups her hand and takes a drink of Basilisk nectar, finding it pleasing to the palette.

Time to put those spices to work.