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Indeed, it seemed that there were a good number of folk privy to the rumours of Queen Tabitha's invitation to her domain and the sanctuary it offered from the dying world upon which it cast a shadow. The loose collection of travelers on the coastal road were largely strangers to one another, unable or unwilling to rely on one another for anything but one of the simplest of theories - safety in numbers.
 
Artur, for the time being, had counted himself among those numbers - but he'd seen time and time again that it was never wise to rely on that alone, particularly when the recent years had seen the Kaimerians growing bolder in their raids beyond the boundaries of their Kratocracy. For that reason, if not instinct, his sword hand never wandered too far from his scabbard, even as he rode atop the relative comfort of a mule rather than afoot. 
 
What had felt like a light desert breeze mere hours ago had gradually whipped up thicker clouds of dust as their procession moved on, which made Artur particularly grateful for the cloak which had kept the worst of the sun at bay and now provided some measure of shelter against the barrage of dust striking from his flank. 
 
Nonetheless, Artur consciously found himself resisting the urge to reach for his waterskin and wet his mouth - a journey remained ahead of them and the distant outline of the floating kingdom was gradually receding behind the mottled cloud of dust slowly enveloping the coast. Soon, his fellow travelers became mere silhouettes, darkened shadows against the desert winds and left to mutter amongst themselves. 
 
Further along the trail they plodded, weary from travel and the elements. Another hour and the storm had subsided enough that the outline of an encampment came into view. High pitched tents with a certain elegance loaned to them, their canopies holding back the stands in stark defiance of the desert winds. The Queen's general invitation had foretold its presence; how else would her emissaries have been able to treat with them? Exusia remained far aloft somewhere in the distance, now a little more discernible since the dust storm had abated.  [color=6ecff6][b]"The Witch-Queen can keep it..."[/b][/color] he muttered, clearing his throat and spitting off to the side. [i]Tabitha's[/i] crown was of no interest to him, nor was the prospect of finding an esteemed place beneath some dais to [i]serve[/i] at the Queen's leisure. No, she was but a means to an end - if she could offer what he wanted. [i]Swords and spears,[/i] he remembered, first and foremost.

Eventually, he found a suitable place to dismount, hitching the mule against a post and making sure that it was adequately fed and watered, then gave it a light brushing and a firm pat. Though he'd appreciated the surefooted beast's service in traversing the precarious desert trails, he had been loathe to name it - from his experience, mounts often died while at war, or on the weary road that came afterwards - naming them just made it too easy to form an attachment. Unfastening his cloak, he departed for the envoy's tent, warily brushing past a half-dozen strangers on his way through and tugging a crumpled poster from his claok. A few of the Exusian guardsmen had likely seen his scabbard, but what else could they expect? They were in the heartland of the Bone Clans, after all.

It was clear to Artur he was certainly not among the first to have arrived, nor would he probably be the last. Off to one side, he caught a glimpse of some strawberry-blonde who fancied herself a cartographer, interfering with the map set out for the excursion. To another was a queerly pale boy prying into the business of a woman who was a giantess by comparison, perhaps literally if her taller, muscular complexion was anything to go by. Another two girls, of differing appearance and smaller complexion had also made their way in, one with a particularly rugged, even feral demeanour to her - it had been some time since he'd seen their like. 

Idly, he found a space not so far behind from where Magdelene was seated and began to mutter the lyrics to a ballad he'd picked up many years ago as a soldiering lad. [color=6ecff6][b]"I don't want no Orthosi shilling, I don't want to be cut down. I'd sooner be willing to make me'self a killing, living off the the Ladies of the Town..."[/b][/color]