The party passes eventually as the night.
Again, dreams come, but this time they are unremembered, other than the sensations of warmth, love, bliss, peace; the fluffy dreams of angels.
You awake in your rooms before dark has given up it's grasp. You hear movement downstairs, pack your things, and find the innkeep setting a breakfast for you. A quick meal, while your faithful hippogriffs are saddled and fed. As dawn becomes a bright sliver on the horizon, you are aloft, headed north for the next stop.
The flight along the coast takes you past jungle, hills, small rivers full of life, the dark smears of smoke marking small villages and towns.
Further north, the great desert moves closer and by early afternoon, after a stop to rest, feed, and water your beasts, the hear begins to grow alarmingly. Scrub grasses become scarce other than near the water. You fly lower, over the water and only then find relief.
Skimming over the wave tops, you spot an underwater city. Circling above you imagine it to be a surface city, lost to rising tides in some ancient epoch, visible now only by the square cut of its walls.
North, shipping becomes more frequent, fisherman wave tentatively, shallow trade barges shield their eyes as you pass overhead.
Soon, you see the city ahead. Perched on two huge islands of a dry river delta, a shanty tent town perched precariously in the river bottom. A great pier complex stretches into the inland sea, with shallow bottom skiffs, rafts and barges ferrying traffic to the shore.
One island houses wealth, great sandstone walls guarding its inhabitants, and tragic flowing both from the site and inland highways.
The other island is poorer, less well protected with a dingier crowd, more laborers and trades folk, rougher nere-do-wells and mercenaries, sailors and the destitute.
This time your hippogriffs do not lead you to an easy inn, but must be guided.
Welcome, to Great Delta.