The day is heavy and wet with recent rain; the clay, caked to the wheels and splattered on the side of the wagon, now drying slowly on the path, has the caravan jolting, starting and stopping. Well over a week ago now, amidst the backbreaking work of digging and ramping the caravan out of a seemingly endless string of ditches on these unkempt back roads, you lost your dice. It became easy to curse the local nobility for their inability to maintain a trade route with a clear dirt track. Because of it, the last tenday has been spent counting how many times Widebelly, the wagon master can regale you with tales of his youth that end with overly graphic descriptions of his time in the brothels of his homeland, and the exuberance with which his advances were met. Looking at him now, and the stomach he's named for, that has become impossible to imagine. Seeing you glance at him after hearing the tale of the pair of overly eager elder women, one of the hands leans over and mutters, "No, friend, t'isn't yer mind's failing, it can't be imagined." A brief laugh between you catches the attention of the wagon driver, and a fine mist of ale and a heavy cough imply that he heard the offhand comment. But rather than discuss it, he focuses more heavily on his driving, now aiming the wagon wheels towards every rut and ditch he can.

It isn't all bad, though. You have managed to keep the spirits of the other travelers light, and managed to derive a decent measure of enjoyment from the journey. As the Asunites so often insist, "the destination marks the beginning of the next journey." That being said, there's comfort in knowing that a warm room and a well tended hearth wait at the end of the ride. But all of that is about to change...