41st day of Harvest, East of Molash, Bechia

More ships. Accursed wind! Stop bringing Silencians to their deaths.

The new arrivals weren’t left in a tavern. I followed them as they were escorted off the quay to three uncovered wagons. A cold wind was blowing, though only gently. The refugees huddled together on the carts; they talked little, though, and kept their eyes downcast.

I mixed in with them and climbed onto the last wagon. It is my best chance of finding the others. I have to warn them. Hopefully this group isn’t being taken to an actual prison… or straight to the lurkers.

I nearly expected lurkers to be waiting at the gates, salivating or slavering with malicious anticipation. I kept a firm grip on the hilt of my dirk. But when we left the confines of the city, there was nothing but slopes of grass and rocks and trees. I was glad; I couldn’t have hoped for a better beginning to the trip.

It started to rain an hour or so down the road. The drops were small and persistent. I kept my coak tight around me, and put my hood up. Refugee families cosied together, but loners hugged themselves. Noone talked. I wonder if any of them would listen or care if I told them I was their king now. They probably think the crown has abandoned them. They seem to think that everyone has abandoned them.

We stopped at a little town, at an inn. The common room was laid out similarly to the dockside refugee accommodation. However, this straw had previously been crushed. Used.