The Skeletons were mocking him

Sal woke with the sun, the faint chill of the desert morning still clinging to his skin. The sand beneath him was coarse but familiar, an unyielding cradle that he'd grown to accept. 

He stretched out slowly, feeling the stiffness leave his limbs, and inhaled the dry, metallic scent of the dunes. His body felt different—lighter, stronger, as though the relentless burn of the Solar Furnace trait had seeped into his bones overnight, a steady ember waiting to ignite.

The spot where his ostrich horse once stood was empty, and for a moment, his gaze lingered there. The memory of the wasps was sharp but fleeting. What was gone was gone. In the desert, regrets were just dead weight.

Securing what little remained of his supplies, he set out. The dunes stretched endlessly in every direction, shifting underfoot with each step. Sal stopped abruptly, testing the sand beneath his bare feet. He bent his knees, leaning forward slightly, and pushed off. The ground gave way but didn't sink him. Instead, it let him glide, each movement a brief, fluid arc across the surface.

It was clumsy at first—more slipping than skating—but he pressed on, adjusting his balance and rhythm. The sun climbed higher as he moved, and soon his steps grew smoother, more controlled. The sand seemed to accept his weight now, letting him skim over its surface like a stray breeze.

(Earthbending Training roll - req 60 / rolled 89 / passed / lvl 11 -> lvl 12)

A grin crept across his face, unbidden but undeniable. "This might be the smartest thing I've ever done," he muttered, but his movements didn't falter. There was something freeing about it, as though the desert itself had stopped resisting and chosen to carry him instead.

Hours passed in this hypnotic rhythm, broken only by occasional stops to scan the horizon. His plan was simple: train while on the move.

 He didn't need much. The Solar Furnace had seen to that. Even the disastrous attempt to roast Buzzard Wasps had provided some sustenance—barely edible, but enough.

You saw the anomaly before he did. A faint smudge on the horizon, darker than the sand and static against the shifting dunes. You didn't speak, not directly. Instead, you sent a fragment of intention through your bond, a subtle nudge that drew his attention like a whisper at the edge of his thoughts.

Sal paused mid-slide, his head snapping up. 

"What's that?" he murmured, squinting. His trajectory shifted immediately, his pace quickening as he moved toward the distant shape.

As he closed in, the details sharpened: splintered wood, torn fabric, and the unmistakable outline of a collapsed structure. It was a campsite—or what was left of one.

Sal slowed to a cautious crawl as he approached, the air around the site heavy with an inexplicable tension. He crouched low, scanning the wreckage with sharp, deliberate movements.

The remnants were scattered across the sand like the bones of a forgotten beast. Bleached skeletons lay half-buried, their brittle limbs twisted in silent testament to a violent end. A tattered tent flapped weakly in the breeze, its fabric reduced to useless threads. Broken tools, empty water skins, and fragments of parchment were strewn across the site, fragile relics of a lost story.

Sal sifted through the debris with measured efficiency, his hands moving without hesitation. Most of it was useless—splintered metal, shattered glass—but he salvaged what he could: a rusty knife, a few warped hooks, and some scraps of cloth that might hold together if he got creative.

Then he saw it.

Half-buried under the splintered remains of a crate was a leather-bound journal. Its edges were cracked and weathered, the once-fine leather worn thin by time. Sal pulled it free, brushing away the sand with careful fingers. The cover's faded design hinted at its former elegance, and the pages inside were surprisingly intact.

The handwriting was neat, meticulous. It wasn't a diary, but something far more practical—a field guide. Observations about desert creatures filled its pages, alongside diagrams and notes on survival techniques. The sketches were rough but detailed: the sharp angles of a Sand Shark's dorsal fin, the segmented body of a Buzzard Wasp, the delicate, serrated claws of a Crawler Cat.

Sal's fingers tightened around the journal. This wasn't just a find—it was a treasure trove of knowledge.

You wondered why he seemed so impressed. He'd lived in this wasteland his whole life, yet the faint glimmer of awe in his expression was unmistakable. Perhaps he had a fondness for botany and didn't realize it until now.

Settling cross-legged in the sand, Sal began flipping through the pages, his eyes scanning quickly. The notes were precise, each entry offering glimpses into a world that even he hadn't fully understood. There were tips on taming desert creatures, baiting traps, and avoiding territorial predators.

One entry caught his attention: a sketch of a sleek feline with sharp ears and a barbed tail.

"Crawler Cat," he read aloud. "Highly territorial. Avoid direct confrontation. Tamable with patience and..."

His voice trailed off as he absorbed the rest of the text. The words were clinical but brimming with potential, a roadmap to possibilities he hadn't considered.

The skeletons around him seemed to mock his find, their empty sockets staring blankly into the void. Sal ignored them, focusing instead on the wealth of information in his hands.

"This just got interesting," he muttered, flipping to the next page.

The desert, for all its vast emptiness, had suddenly become a place of opportunity.

And all the while, you watched.

(Luck roll - 95)