Despite the heat of the mid-day spring sun, Master Devane felt all the safer under the weight of his traveling cloak. After the roads through Dorn'Heim the heat was a welcome companion, though it hung on him like a drunken relative. It seemed each mile brought them closer to the Brenn's golden light. A subtle flick of his wrist moved the whip in such a way as to give his oxen all the motivation they needed to keep in step as he hummed himself a morbid old traveling song.
Straight as the crow flies
Wheels are turnin
Clear as the blue skies
Fires is burnin
Chasin the next noon
Roads is faster
Racin the Grey Moon
Bad luck's master
It was days like this he was happy to follow these trails. Took his mind off his mean woman, leaving him after all these years, and the wretched cough he'd been having for days now. News from the North-East gave all wagon masters a few sleepless nights. Raids on trade wagons. Merchants killed by the Mountain races. News of the attacks indicated that the real threat was weeks away from their path, but bad news always came in threes. This road he had taken since he was just a pup, working on the caravans. And now here he was with his own meager trade wagon. It had his name on the side and everything. The thought of losing all he had left made a stone in his stomach.
So he had hired some guards just in case. Not just rough and tumble merchs our for a few clean pips, but a diverse group. Folk who needed use of the road themselves, and traveling by wagon is always best. Camps at night, safety in numbers, all that practice. Two crowns a head and use of his food and water seemed like a steep price to Devane, but better safe than sorry. This lot seemed a curious crew, but at least they kept their mouths shut, and helped with the work.
One of them was even wearing the green. A priest of the Blood Goddess. They say traveling with them is good luck, and he would take all he could find. Boy seemed kinda young, but then again, Devane didn't know how the church did things. Other than that rag-tag group was Otis and Ivan. Long time friends of Devane. The two ran a spice trade out of their little black cart, trudging behind his own wagon slowly.
2 wagons, 1 cart, four oxes, 1 horse, 8 men and a dog. Not the largest caravan to ever leave Danmier, but then again, maybe they wouldn't draw attention. He chose to keep the last verse of the song to himself.
Over the next pass
Down in the meadow
You can hear the young lass
Crying like a widow
Roundabout overhead
Crows is flying
Looking for a free meal
Folks is dying.
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