The sound of sands flowing slowly along the dunes murmurs and breathes, the evening sky beginning to be filled with the two moons. The sun, a dull red, begins to dip past the horizon, its light dwindling. The coming midnight chases the red and orange glow, as stars begin to emerge, twinkling and exuberant. The light follows four processions of people coalescing near a raised, round stone platform, its design of concentric circles spiraling toward the weathered emblem of the desert spirit, a short trident piercing through a bowl shaped like a waning moon.

Braziers are placed and lit in the sands, tents are erected, and the communion of nomads begin to greet one another, old friends and new family, kin all. Young couples show their children off, little children run haphazardly and rejoice with one another as if they'd known each other for years, and old friends come together to speak of their lives and their travels. The beauty of community and the grace of a hardy people, relying on one another in the effectual expanse of the Ishara'ni, a desert that is their mother, their father, their betrayer, and their savior.

As greetings dwindle down, a single, large bonfire is erected and lit by elders of the communities, the people all turned toward the activity with reverence and quiet. Livestock are gutted, the blood offered to the roaring flames and to the sands under their feet, the flames licking hungrily while the desert drinks deep. The silence is broken by the communion once more as food begins to be prepared, laughter and drink are passed among the crowd, and the people help one another with the tasks at hand. Mothers give their daughters advice for their newborns, elders speak and watch over the scampering little ones, and the adults begin their preparation for the coming night. Each is given their fill, each given their place and respect in the community.

As the food is finished, scraps are discarded or given to their beasts, and fourteen nomads leave for their tents, each returning with instruments, taking their time to prepare them. Strange string instruments with wide, short hollows, violins, small drums, and other instruments are taken to the platform and placed in the sand. A procession of women usher a young woman into another tent, disappearing amidst the heavy fabric. A man directs the musicians to their places while eyeing and preparing his own instrument. He takes his position at the head of the musicians and waits,. The rest of the communion begin to come close to the platform, surrounding it, keeping their space from the musicians. An older man is beaming toward the musician directing the others, and talking to his fellows who are in turn clapping him on the back, congratulating him. The musician grins towards his father before turning back to his task.

The people talk amongst each other quietly, as the most miniscule breeze brings the arid, musty scent of sand and home.