To venture into the Arashi Desert is to knock on death’s door. No one goes into the desert by choice, regardless of what rumors of treasure that were heard spilling from the lips of a drunken captain—muttered in the calm and shade of an outskirt tavern. The desert is death’s domain, but it’s the Arashi people who allow the specter to operate in their home.
The League comes together when the harsh realities of their environment force them to cooperate in order to survive. They ignore their cultural differences, little spats over missing goats, who has the right to scavenge in what scorching dump. The small tribal families, warbands, and rag tag groups are fiercely independent and clutch the reins leashed to Death’s neck, holding the ghost near. They are experts at surviving the impossible land that was forced upon them, but they do not hate it. They cherish the desert and have banded together to bring it to submission.
Now that the desert, like death, has been conquered, the League forms again to protect their independence and unique ways of life from those who are not scorched by the tireless sun and those without sand in their hair. Those who dare venture into their lands.