[center][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uxg5W5wKvLE[/youtube][/center] 

It began to rain. 

Something smelled like rancid cheese. It had followed them over the roads and through the mountains, but it didn't betray what it was until Fenks fell over dead; his back splitting open to reveal bits of his rib cage. It took the watchmen an hour to fully remove him and leave his body along the roadside, and once the task was done they were placed back in the wagon. The plague had found another victim, but it did leave good news for the occupants in the cart. If they had the disease, they would have shown signs by now. Fenks had hid it behind his grey shirt. It seems the Gods looked down on them with some last vestigial mercy before they turned their backs upon the exiled few. 

The rain fell harder. It drowned out the grunts of the mounted men who escorted them, the men having to yell at one another to communicate in any fashion. The ten that escorted the wagon on foot clutched their halberds, facing forward grimly when they weren't glancing into the gaps of the prison cart with disdain. Water dripped off their kettle helms and unshaven chins, seeping into their surcoats and boots. The prisoners had the luxury of the wagon roof, but they were only clad in unassuming grey garments. Any droplets that fell in likely touched either thin fabric or flesh.

It had been rough going even sitting on their asses. The mountain passes were fraught with rocks and steep inclines, causing them to all but fly around the cramped cart. Their food was soggy and old, and their piss breaks could only be described as 'infrequent.' It was lucky they now saw the walls of rock that had framed their wagon the last two days were now dispersing to copses of trees and even a glimpse at the sky. Unfortunately, the mountains were not finished with them. The foothills were as unwelcoming as their larger cousins, bucking their wagon. One horse even broke a leg the day before, having to be put down swiftly and its rider made to walk. 

The six of them in their wagon were surrounded by thirty men-at-arms. All career soldiers, given leave by their Lord to take the exiles as far south as the Blood Coast. They carried themselves as killers, their crossbows were held like old friends. When their liege had offered them double pay for the week, they had all agreed. It seemed a strange investment to send these souls southward when they could just be killed, but the logic was sound. Raddek had overheard the magistrate explain the night before their departure. It bypassed whatever scandal might occur for any who would be missed, it would grant their soldiers some extra pay rather than grant them any scarce available land for service rewards, and if any of the six survived and found enough money to pay for their ransom, it was all worth it in the end. 

The squeaking of the wagon wheels stopped, and the six of them shifted forward for the briefest of moments. They could barely see past the rain and the horses outside the wagon. Shouts rose and the beasts whinnied, moments turning to a full minute as the rain simply continued to fall. Slowly the back door was unlatched, and it creaked open before the six. Mud streaked rocks and hard ground greeted them, and a coarse voice ordered them to stand up and step out of the wagon. Three men stepped into view, their crossbows loaded and raised. There was no negotiation, and when the prisoners left the roof of the wagon, they felt the cold touch of the storm's torrent on their skin. 

Two men closed the door behind them; a stark difference than every other 'break' they had experienced. They could see the barbed tips of twenty quarrels pointed their way, all from the mounted men. Ten halberds lowered; ready to skewer them at a moment's notice. There was something menacing about the steel forged head of the weapons, dripping in the rain. Out of the ranks rode the Commander, recognizable only by his thick mustache and hard eyes. His stallion neighed and stamped upon the ground as he reined the beast in, keeping it from bowling over the prisoners. 

Without a word, he produced a steel circle with seven keys in its ring and tossed it into the mud at their feet. The keys to their shackles. The voice of his sergeant rose behind him, telling the men to reform and move out. The creak of the wagon departed, the structure reared around the small clearing they found themselves standing upon. The last real plateau of the mountains before the lowlands and trees swallowed them all up. 

With a sneer, the Commander turned his horse. It was then they noticed the entire contingent had already disappeared into the mist, their squadron leader now following suit, fading into the distance. Like a dream the soldiers and wagon disappeared into the nothingness. Like waking from the dream, the rain began to dissipate. The clouds wrath having been sated and uncovering a glimpse of the sun, though it remained elusive for the current moment. 

Now the six were alone, with seven keys and the north closed off. 

The Bloodcoast awaited.