LOCATION:

The Southern Wastes

Before you stretch the desolate wastes. There is nothing to be seen for miles. No water, no air. Just gasping dust in this wasteland. You had better have water with you. No folk dwell here, it is too harsh. About you, you can see the remnants of bones of animals. Skulls amid the barren rocks. When will this waste and desolation end?

Obvious exits:

By the Withered Tree By the Stone By the Bridge By the Cacti

Dawn is just breaking, and long streamers of pink and gold stretch across the eastern horizon. Away to the west, the waning moon still shines, highlighting a heavy bank of dark cloud. In the faint light a long line of men makes its way across the desert, accompanied by pack-mules. The line does not waver, each man following in the footsteps of the one before, and on closer inspection the reason for this is obvious, for these men are chained to one another. At the head and foot of the line are guards, judging by their weapons, wearing thick clothing to protect them from the sun and the dust.

The leader, Rashan, is currently ahead of the group, but a couple of whip-bearers walk the length of the line to ensure that their charges do not get out of hand. Few of the captives take much notice of their surroundings, but the last man in the line raises a head to stare westward, towards the lowering cloud, blinking the sand away from amber eyes, dry and cracked lips pressed firmly shut.

[Rabapuh:] The last prisoner is not the last being in the sad train of humanity, several guards and a few of the mules bring up the very rear. Among these paces Rababpuh, a guard of not worth of note but for the waterskin he bares. A pointed helm sits atop his head, a thick sunshield covering his neck. Hazelnut eyes regard the slaves in front of him in distaste, but a gold piece is a gold piece, work is work.

It would seem that Rashan is indeed not to enamored of a dawn rest, so instead the most juvenile of the guards is forced to give the slaves a little water as they go. With a shrug Rabapuh starts with the last slave in line, the short fellow with the amber eyes. Drinking an dwalking while bound may be a tricky business, but most slaves soon master the dubious art. "Drink up maggot, lest you be useless to the master!"

The last man in the line of his captives - Barzag is his name, though few here care about such things - turns to regard Rabapuh, hoarse voice already forming a reply, "<Mannish_H> I do not -" But then his eyes fall on the waterskin, and he slows his pace, tugging on the chain, as he waits for the guard to hold the waterskin closer. Dried, oddly twisted lips, part involuntarily, but he speaks no further word.

[Rabapuh:] Rabapuh's nervousness attests to his youngish age. One gnarled hand grasps the hilt of a scimitar, the other hand hands the skin to Barzag, careful to lose none of the precious liquid. Only for s hort time does the guard allow Barzag to drink. Grabbing at the skin with both hands Rabapuh speaks in snatching basic, "You are done now, you drink to much, we all die. Leave some for rest of us pig"

The amber eyes narrow, as Barzag clearly understands these words at least. "I do not take too much," he mutters in his own accented Adunaic as the skin is snatched away, and then, "The sun comes up now - why do we not stop?" - almost as if he expected the guard to take the time to answer him. Again his eyes wander past Rabapuh, towards the western horizon, now shrouded in heavy cloud, and away ahead to where a few of the Haradrim are conferring.

[Rabapuh:] Rabapuh does stop long enough to spit out a few words, "Because if we keep stopping, we take longer to get to master's." No more does the guard utter as he tramps up the line to the next prisoner. the ritual is repeated along the line until all are given the fuel to march another few hours or so

The Hillman hears the answer, and watches as the guardsman moves along the line, twisted lips forming the question he cannot ask - or at least the one to which his captors will give him no answer - "where?" And plods on, shoulders hunching against the rising sun, eyes blinking away the grit that is stirred up by a sudden wind.