Sunspire Mountains You know we could put them all to shame

Her gaze darkened as she recalled Rose and the rites she had never received. Because of her, Ophelia and her sickness, her weakness, the shame she brought to her proud family. What so few wolves understood was that there were no others in The Gilded Sea, never for very long at least. Only the Medeiros family stayed; only they survived. There was pride in that, one soiled by the failure of two sisters.

Now it was all lost to the fire. She wasn't sorry to see it gone.

We were meant to - to dance. The dancers were, anyway, but not to call the rain, Their grief had not been a soft thing. We never got the chance. And I'm not sad about that. We were meant to call the fire.

Blood on the altar; blood wrung from the land. Retribution as much as oblation, but neither, truly. The Gilded Sea was subject to no whims but those of its gods, and they were only beggars at the doorstep of divinity. The gods dealt in rusty quarters and pitying smiles by turns.

What did you do in the desert?