As the sun rose once again, continuing it’s perpetual cycle of bringing incessant heat on the desert plains, a small group of caravans appeared on the far edge of the dunes. They had come a long way, and were not about to let the mere sea of sand before them get in their way.
There was nothing altogether special about the caravans. Drawn by horses, made of recycled wood, and filled with whatever the people driving them could manage. Food, scant few medical supplies, and odds and ends that held value only to the holder. Thankfully their leader had seen fit to take a good deal of water, two of the vans bearing the weight of a good deal of it.
To the trained eye, one would notice something- the wood was scorched here and there. Indeed, the tarps hung overtop had a few marks as well, and were patched with two separate flags. This was no caravan of business or exploration- this was a caravan of refugees. Their reasons for leaving were simple, a feud between two lords that had spilled over from the table and into the plains, leaving blood and desolation in its wake. As the rulers of the land held no loyalty to their peasants, standing by as their lands were razed and scorched, so too the peasants bore no loyalty to their demesne. They fled, as they could, led by the mayor of their lands.
Not the whole would make it this far. Many had been left in shallow graves back there, and many had been conscripted for contests of arms. Their lord had pursued them, for a time, but eventually gave up. It was not worth the time of the knights giving chase to hold the peasants to their land, so they were cast free.
So it was they had arrived at the border of this desert, and halted for a time. The leadership of the train huddling around each other and discussing their future.
The most eye-catching of this group was the town imam, wearing his gold-brimmed turban still, refusing to take off the customary dress that had spent centuries being passed down within the town. With the other religious leaders missing, it fell upon him to represent even faiths not his own. He was a thinner man, of middle age, and stood in a confident stance. Presently he held a religious text, an ancient book scarred with age.
Beside him stood the chief merchant, or so he was now- the others had run long ago, taking their wares with him. He had been left holding the bag, as it were,  with the only stocks left in town. Rather than allow the armies to pillage his wares, he chose to leave and see where fate took him. Several of the caravans were full of his remaining wares, and he promised the group a fair pay if it remained intact to the end of their voyage. He wore a simple dress, more benefiting a peasant than a merchant- but he knew well enough not to look rich on the road.
His body was thickened by a life of relatively luxury, and he slumped slightly. Still, he was happier than most given the circumstances.
Facing them both was the leader of this convoy, a woman with a commanding stature and a stolen set of leather armour around herself. It did not fit well, but it did better than a clothe shirt. Small seams where it had been cut, and then stitched to add length, were obvious on close inspection. She only hoped any enemy wasn’t accurate enough with a blade or arrow to make use of that vulnerability.
A crossbow was slung across her back. Shiny and elegant, it was a simple instrument used for sporting contest, but would make a potent weapon in the hands of a  skilled markswoman. A small dagger sat at her hip as well, although she knew full well with her lack of training it was mostly for show.
The woman’s name was Razgriz Northstar, duly elected mayor of the largest town in the area these people had called home. It fell on her to provide leadership, and she had negotiated for the wagons, and it was her crossbow skills that had gottem this far- for hunting, thankfully the warzone had kept bandits at arms reach for now.
Luck, however, never holds long for those who need it.
First to speak, her voice was authoritative without being harsh. Distinctly feminine, but not quite soft. Such a voice had won her elections for fifteen years running.
“Gentlemen, it’s been seven days, and seven nights. Just like I said, we’re at the Dune Gates, I trust I have your faith now? Imam, what say you?”
The imam had anticipated this, and opened to a page of his book. “Just like the voyage of the twelve thousand jackals- we too will find the arms of a..” the man squinted, and blushed slightly. “... well endowed maiden welcoming us, when we are at our most desperate.”
Razgriz squinted at him slightly. “I trust your book speaks in metaphor.”
The imam nodded. “Of course... if I were to take it literally, I would have to stone you for holding a weapon amongst men.”
Rolling her eyes, Razgriz turned to the merchant. “Then what might you say. Jubilee? Will you keep with us, or will you take your chances otherwise?”
Jubilee shrugged. “To be honest, my lady- I feel doomed either way. At least I’ll have company this way- better company than I might find in the wilderness anyway. So long as you offer better protection for my remaining wares than otherwise: I, and my services, are with you.”
Razgriz smirked, putting a hand on her hip and pointing at him with the other. “Services? What services exactly.”
The merchant scowled back. While he was wider than her, he was a half head shorter and the effect was more comical than anything. “I’m a damn fine seamstress...”
“... Tailor, seamstress is feminine,” the Imam spoke, quickly finding a finger poking his chest.
“My mother was a seamstress, and so was her mother, and her mother before her! I am a seamstress, and I’ll be damned if I’m anything but!”
Turning back to Razgriz, Jubilee continued. “Now then. I am a seamstress, and  I’ll remind you I lengthened that ‘armour’ of yours. Secondly, I cook a mean soup- it takes some skill to make those rabbit welps you shot taste anything approaching good. Thirdly-”
Jubilee prodded his own chest with his thumb, “Those are my caravans, damn near half of them! As charitable as I am...”
The imam considered something in his book, a ledger near the back. He chose not to speak up.
“... I don’t consider those yours, they’re mine and they’re only here as long as I am.”
Razgriz simply laughed, and patted him on the head. “Keep up that spririt, and we’ll get through the next nine days just fine.”
Jubilee did not appreciate the thought, and stomped off, his boots sinking into the sandy dirt and turning his storming off into an awkward waddle. That left Razgriz and the imam.
“You can call me Mosul, I was named for my grandfather, and he too led a flock. He led them... there...”
Mosul gestured behind him, back to where the sun would set. A thin smoke drifted over the land, coming off the homes burning. Razgriz watched for a time, as the two men rejoined their vans and others that had taken a break saddled back up. It was a few minutes before she found her horse, watching that smoke glide across the landscape. They had all lost something back there, they wouldn’t be leaving if they hadn’t.
A name whispered was lost in the wind just the same as the smoke.