The raging sun dominated the sky. Its hateful rays beat down on the soil, cracking the bare earth and stripping the last bit of moisture from even the most noxious of weeds. Small animals, and people if they had enough sense, were nowhere to be found. Nevertheless, a steadfast group of rather thuggish-looking fellows dutifully plodded along the small road leading from Drassington to a fortress of stone that was getting all-too familiar. Mixed in with the group, adding their slight bellows of effort to the various curses of the convoy were oxen strapped to carts carefully packed with more straw than would normally be used for padding in any other trading parties.
Indeed, this merchant convoy would be quite suspicious to any outside observer, whether they notice the escorts that looked strangely similar to a stereotypical gang member, or the barrels, cushioned from any impacts to the point of extreme excess. Still, the scarred and muscled dwarf at the head of the line of oddities couldn't quite shake the nagging undertone of concern that whispered and intertwined itself with his thoughts.
Blast it all to hell, Bert said again to himself, licking his flaking, cracked lips. He had lost count of how many times he had cursed this job that had been forced upon him by his lunatic of a boss. At least, if we don't get blasted to hell first. I swear, if it weren't for those fucking rats lurking in every corner, the boys and I would have left already. Hell, I wouldn't even mind bringing the kiddos with me to move to a town on the other side of this damn continent!
The idea itself was a popular musing among the fellow members of the Blinders. Nearly every time they got drunk together someone would bring up moving to Mortent, Alten, or some other backwards-ass place in the middle of nowhere. Preferably very far North. Still, all that was needed to sober the lads up after talk like that was the mention of poor Wavey and a subtle nod towards one of the many rat-infested gutters that lined the streets of the slums. Those... things always seemed to be staring at them. A horrible, vacant stare. Bert was starting to see it everywhere. The rats, simply looking at him with their beady, unblinking eyes. The way some of them would just sit up on their hind legs, not even making a sound as their heads gradually turned to follow his footsteps when he was on an errand for Tim. Hell, somedays he could almost swear that some of the people in Drassington were doing the same thing. Well, no wonder. The town sure as hell hasn't been the same since we tested that 'gunpowder'. Bert hawked up a vile ball of phlegm and spat it out on the road in disgust. Fucking unnatural. Though, I give it props for the power. I ain't never seen a hero look that pissed.
Just as Bert's thoughts were about to go down yet another rabbit-hole, an approaching pair of boots stomping down on the dusty road made his ears perk up in mild curiosity.
"Ey' Bert, the boys want to know when we stop for lunch. It's getting' mighty hot out here."
Bert glanced back over his shoulder, noting the looming half-orc behind him staring at him with exhausted eyes. "Ha, figures it would be you asking, Glenson. You know the drill," Bert chuckled soullessly, "the boss wants this done all fast-like, and that means there ain't no breaks until we reach that damn Bastille and drop this shit off in the dungeons."
At the sight of Glenson's mournful look, Bert gave a knowing smile as he reached back and patted his massive companion on the arm. "Cheer up buddy, I figured it'd be a hot un' today, so I made sure to get some jingle in my pocket before we left. That should motivate those maggots on guard duty to part with that sweet essence of life."
"You… you mean it?" Glenson hopefully sighed.
Bert chuckled with the full knowledge that the lads would owe him yet another favor. "You know it brother, the sweet embrace of an ice-cold ale is waiting for us come lunchtime."
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Elsewhere back in Drassington, the sun beat down with the same unrelenting and raging force. The heat, so brutal and sapping of strength, forced most of the citizens to seek refuge in the cool shade of houses, trees, and doorsteps. Unfortunately for Vort, neither he nor his guard squads were included in that group.
"Ah, by the seven hells," Vort complained, "can't that halfie bastard just show himself already!" Grumbling at the injustice, the captain of the guard, who had long since shed his metal armor in favor of a simple gambeson and chain mail stealthily checked for any watching citizens and, finding none, flopped down on the nearest shady doorstep. Popping open the canteen filled with watered-down wine, Vort's vision ambled up and down the streets in search of something, anything to stave off the boredom of the ceaseless patrols. The tedium was really getting to him.
In fact, it seemed to be getting to all of his guards. At the start most of them had been chatty, willing to break the boredom with a stupid joke or a groan-inducing pun, but as the week went on those attempts grew fewer and fewer in number. Instead, they were replaced with blank looks, unfocused eyes, and even a lack of verbal responses to his questions. At first, he had thought the useless louts were showing up drunk or hungover to work, but as the days melded together, Vort could actually feel a faint bit of concern welling up in the bottom of his stomach. After all, even he could empathize with them if it were a sickness going around.
Well, I'm sure they'll snap out of it soon enough. I suppose since it's not really interfering with their work I shouldn't be too concerned. He thought as he heaved himself off the steps with an "Oof" of exertion, absentmindedly sending a kick at a nearby rat that threatened to scuttle over his boots.
To his side, the squadron of four guards simply stared at their captain with unblinking eyes.