The Great Migration is a slow-moving Yuan-ti caravan: dozens of wagons, handcarts, and canvas trailers pulled by giant desert lizards, ringed with walking sickbeds and thin quarantine screens. It creeps at the pace of its weakest, no faster than a mile or two a day, while lean scout parties slip ahead at dawn to taste water, speak to wardens, and mark the next stretch of safe ground. The camp forms in three rings when it halts—inner for the infirm and the kettle fires, middle for families and stores, outer for beasts and night pickets—under the quiet rule of Pureblood speakers and the rare, watching Abomination elders.
When it arrives, a rope is strung and a lantern hung to show where outsiders may stand; trade is set on a chalked mat and words are kept short. Boiled water steams from braziers, serpents’ songs rise with the heat, and the lizards kneel to be unburdened. The Migration keeps to tiefling water-share terms where posted, asks only a few nights’ rest when fevers climb, and moves on before tracks grow deep. It leaves behind neat ash circles, a knot tied into the cairn rope, and the feeling that something fragile and stubborn has passed through—still searching for a cure, still choosing the road.