Every dead palm gets felled. This one is still standing, and it rattles when the air is still.
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In the hydra-hide halls of Zharessin Oasis, brass dragonborn Bharash Kilnbrand smelts desert ironstone with his own breath and fits every weapon to the hand that will carry it. He stands behind everything he sells.
He couldn't take the oasis. So he sits in the dunes and takes from everyone who walks away from it.
Every night the wind howls past the black rock ring around Zharessin Oasis, and Oshenne Zephrain, an air genasi elder of the council of shamans, tilts her head and listens. She gives the sound first, what she thinks it asked second, and never claims to know who is speaking.
