Just as Altaïr had first judged, this was a migrating tribe of desert nomads.
The middle-aged man who had called out to him earlier was the leader guiding the migration, around fifty years old, precisely the age when experience and physical strength reached their best balance.
He had brown skin and closely cropped pale stubble, shaved short for convenience and only just beginning to grow back.
That skin tone and hair color were the most common traits among desert nomads, just like Altaïr himself.
"Greetings, unfamiliar Hunter." The man greeted Altaïr first, using the common tongue, but with a heavy accent.
Beneath his dust veil, Altaïr's expression grew slightly complicated.
To many people, this accent might have been difficult to understand, but to him, it was deeply familiar and comforting.
In his first two years after arriving in Loc Lac, he had sounded exactly the same when he spoke.
"Hello." Altaïr pressed his palm to his chest and replied in the Nomad tongue, "May the wind and sand guide your path."
Hearing the familiar language and blessing, the leader was taken aback at first, then his face lit up with delighted surprise.
No longer struggling along in that halting common tongue, he switched back to the Nomad language. "So you are also a child of the desert. May the wind and sand guide your path."
It was the hour when the afternoon sun was at its fiercest, so the leader simply brought the group to the shaded side of a dune for a brief rest.
Curious nomads gathered around, and when they heard that Altaïr was also "one of them," these people of the Sand Sea showed him even greater, completely unreserved warmth.
Several people worked together to prop up a temporary tent to block the sun.
A child not even as tall as Altaïr's thigh sucked on a finger while curiously touching his glittering golden armor.
A nomad girl wearing a face veil handed him a full waterskin.
When traveling the Sand Sea, water was rationed carefully, mouthful by mouthful. The fact that the nomads were willing to share water with him clearly meant they had already accepted him as one of their own.
Altaïr politely declined their kindness, saying that the drinking water he carried was still sufficient.
Just then, a half-grown youth supporting a hunched, elderly Wyverian came before him.
Sitting cross-legged in the shade of the tent, Altaïr hurriedly rose. He knew this must be the elder, or leader, of this nomad tribe.
Resources in the desert were relatively scarce, so nomad tribes were never too large, and their leaders were generally older Wyverians.
Only the most experienced Wyverian elder could lead everyone along a path of survival through the boundless Sand Sea.
The elder, whose eyebrows obscured his eyes, chuckled warmly and spoke with Altaïr about their journey.
The oasis where they had previously lived had been swallowed by a massive sandstorm. For the sake of survival, they had embarked on this migration toward a new oasis.
Looking at the oasis location marked on the elder's map, Altaïr furrowed his brows.
Because of sandstorms, oases in the desert shifted frequently, so desert travelers had a habit of exchanging information.
Altaïr took out his own map.
His map came from former colleagues in the Loc Lac Rangers. The Rangers team had many members, operated over a wide range, and moved frequently, so their maps were generally quite reliable.
"The oasis you're planning to migrate to was also hit by a sandstorm not long ago and is rapidly degrading. It may no longer be suitable as a destination.
"However, if you head northeast from here, about five or six days' journey away, there's another large oasis. That place should be able to serve as your home for quite a long time to come."
The elder gazed at Altaïr's map, deep in thought.
As a fellow expert in desert travel, Altaïr could tell at a glance what the old man was struggling with.
The most critical part of desert travel was supplies. The elder was likely worried that the caravan's provisions would not be enough to sustain them until they reached the new oasis.
The safest course, of course, would be to turn back immediately and head for Loc Lac, which was only a two-day journey away, to resupply.
It was clear from the route the elder had arranged that the migrating caravan had deliberately kept close to Loc Lac, precisely so the city could serve as a fallback if an unforeseen situation like this arose.
But if possible, no one wanted to double back unnecessarily. The detour would add many days to the journey, and the elderly and children in the caravan might not be able to endure it.
"Alternatively, there is another way."
Altaïr pointed to another area on the map. "This used to be a large oasis with a broad lake. In recent years, the lake dried up and turned into wasteland.
"However, from what I've heard from people who passed through that area recently, perhaps due to some geological change, the spring feeding the great lake has started flowing again. Though it's far from restored to its former state, it should be fine as a temporary resupply point.
"Most importantly, it's more or less on the way. It's also about two days' travel from here, but you won't have to turn back."
The elder's eyes opened a slit as he looked at the area under Altaïr's finger. A hint of delight crept into his voice. "This is Great Horn Flats? That lake has water again?"
"Great Horn Flats?" Altaïr was taken aback by the name.
"Oh, beside that dry lakebed, there's an enormous skeleton. The skeleton has a pair of very large horns, so the nomads living nearby all call that place by that name."
Altaïr's expression grew complicated. He knew perfectly well what that "skeleton with the large horns" was.
"Speaking of which, young man, I haven't yet had a chance to ask. What is the destination of your journey?"
Altaïr forced a smile onto his face. "The same place. Great Horn Flats."
After the nomads' camel caravan adjusted its route, Altaïr, whose target aligned with theirs, naturally traveled with them.
As for Altaïr's temporary addition to the group, the nomads could not have been more welcoming.
Even setting aside the fact that, as a Hunter, he could protect the caravan, simply encountering another nomad in the vast desert, now such a rare thing, was already enough to fill them with joy.
The journey to Great Horn Flats was uneventful, free of any danger or incident.
Because Altaïr was there as a Hunter, they no longer needed to detour around the territories where Genprey and Cephalos packs roamed, arriving at the dried-up oasis half a day earlier than originally planned.
No, unlike his visit a few years ago, Great Horn Flats could no longer be called a barren shore.
With the reappearance of the spring at the bottom of the lake, the vast lakebed that had been dry for many years had now accumulated more than a meter of water.
Having absorbed that precious moisture, plants that had lain dormant for years, buried deep beneath the sand, now sent up new shoots, dotting the lakeshore with precious touches of green.
Fresh traces left by Aptonoth could be seen on the shore. It was clear that humans were not the only ones drawn to this patch of water and greenery.
With shouts of delight, the playful nomad children leaped into the not-too-deep lake water, buried their heads to drink their fill, then began splashing and frolicking.
Sincere smiles also blossomed on the dust-stained faces of the adults, and the Wyverian elder, leaning on his walking stick, heaved a sigh of relief.
Had they been unable to replenish their water supply here, then whether they risked pressing onward to their destination oasis or turned back toward Loc Lac, they would have had to start using their emergency water reserves, a highly dangerous situation for nomads who traveled the desert year-round.
"Thank you for your information and guidance," the elder said, bowing slightly to express his gratitude to Altaïr.
Altaïr, however, simply stared blankly at this newly recovering oasis, his heart filled with a complex mix of emotions he himself could not describe.
The elder lifted his eyelids, his gaze, partially veiled by his sparse eyebrows, resting on the young hunter.
During the two days they had traveled together, Altaïr had never spoken clearly of his past.
But recalling the rumor from over a decade ago about a nomad tribe settled by this oasis being wiped out by a Monster attack, the elder, who had witnessed countless meetings and partings in his long life, could guess the gist of it.
"The great lake revives, its spirit nourishes the land, the sprouting plants will spread over the gravel, and flowers will bloom upon the withered bones.
"Young man, don't wear such a troubled face. Put on a smile and go see them."
(Translated by yourtl.app)