(OOC: Closed to Xilen and I for now.)
Dusty, dirty, hot. The thought of thirst flickered faintly across the minds all the beings in the wagon train. Water was not something taken lightly, or something given to, the others.
Twelve wagons rumbled down a stretch of road, headed for a hell that normal people didn’t go to willingly. Twelve wagons, twenty-four oxen, one hundred and twenty men, and ten water skins; dire straits for a healthy wagon train.
Each wagon was fairly small, and consisted of a six foot high cage. Two-inch wooden bars stood vertical, keeping the occupants from leaving.
Obviously, this wasn’t a standard migration wagon train. Only twenty of the humanoid members of this bedraggled caravan were free to wander as they pleased. Each was equipped well.
Wagon five. Second breakdown of the day and the guards weren’t happy about it, at all. As two enormous men struggled to hold the wagon up for a third to put the newly fixed wheel on, all five occupancy huddled in the opposite corner; almost desperate to avoid the whip that had burned permanent scars in the backs of each. The look of utter defeat, and surrender was etched in the faces of all.
Most had been running for most of their adult lives. Running from the law, wives, “holy avengersâ€, or simply from themselves. They were tired of running, tired of the constant tension, the stress, and the narrow escapes with their lives.
“Water…†One of them managed to force out of his parched, and cracked lips. “Please, water…â€
A whip across his unprotected left arm was all he received. Water was not given to the prisoners, not until both the guards and the oxen had had their fill. And with water as scarse as it was now, the prisoners could die before they got any.
It was the caravan from hell, on its return trip.
Edited by: Kas Katta at: 2/28/03 9:21:43 am