This is a desert. There's some less deserty area, over there, an oasis or maybe just sheltered by the rocks it's up against at the right angle to catch some moisture; and in it there are houses, tents, people.

Great. She's pretty sure none of the languages she knows are likely to be spoken by people who live in deserts, except maybe Hebrew. ...And Odette's not here. Fuck. Okay, let's see if we get lucky and there's maybe a Shemeshite she can talk to over there.

The people here appear to be talking some language she doesn't even recognize. They look at her in suspicious puzzlement. "Haan," says one woman tentatively.

What does Haan mean is it a greeting or a name or what. "Hebrew?" she tries, in that language.

Frowns. No recognition. Incomprehensible muttering.

Great. Great. What now? If she had landed somewhere habitable she could just sit tight until someone found her--they'd look, she knows she would. But--well. She's a mage. She's not going to die in the desert. But it's not likely to be pleasant. "Illia," she says tentatively, pointing to herself.

"Ylal," the same woman who said "haan" attempts. And she points at herself and says, "Kaaderid."

"...Haan, Kaaderid," she attempts. She's assuming that haan means hello.

"Haan, Ylal. Ochar Makas?"

She spreads her hands apologetically; she really doesn't speak the language.

Frowning. Muttering. An older man addresses Kaaderid. Kaaderid waves Illia to follow her and the man. (Everyone else is still muttering.)

She follows. Might as well.

"Tozef," Kaaderid says, pointing at the man. "Tozef Raabek." At herself, "Kaaderid us Tozef."

"Illia Zavier," she says, pointing to herself.

"Us Zaavyr? Tis Zaavyr? - en, daamrek," says Kaaderid, shaking her head after realizing these questions will make no sense.

They really don't! "I, Illia Zavier," she tries. "You, Kaaderid us Tozef," she points to Kaaderid, "him, Tozef Raabek."

"Mm! Rak, Kaaderid us Tozef, das, Ylal Zaavyr, mik, Tozef Raabek." Nod nod. "Mm... Tozef gan Ylal gan Kaaderid, akridik. Akrid, akrid, akrid," she adds, pointing at random people they pass. A little boy laughs.

"Person, people," she guesses. "Woman," she points to herself and Kaaderid, "Man." She points to Tozef.

"Mirat, daat."

"Child, child, child," she points, "children."

"Arnar, arnarik."

"Sky, ground," she says, pointing up and down. "Sand." She scoops up a handful and lets it trail through her fingers. "Desert." She sweeps her arm around.

And she gets words for these things, too, and also "house", which she is invited into. Kaaderid continues to provide vocabulary.

Okay, sure. Illia is not actually a linguistic genius and frequently has to be reminded of words for things.

Kaaderid continues patiently teaching her the language (it is called "Leraal") until she has enough vocabulary to suggest that Illia could come help farm beans while they continue this conversation.