Slaves of Shadovar
Escape from New Sembia
Each of you has been collected and thrown on what is cruelly dubbed the “work wagon”. Overdue debts, criminal records one fine over the line, angry rivals with better pals in higher places. . .maybe you know how it happened. Maybe you even remember where you went to sleep last night. But today you wake up in a wagon, manacled to a chain of other disreputable, disgruntled, clearly-actually-deserving-of-their-state louts, on your way to some sort of black-market stall where you will be sold off for, if you are lucky, hard labor.
It’s cold enough that you frozen muck on your hands, bright as Hells even through the blindfolds you have on, and it smells positively awful among the wagons. Another prisoner, an asthmatic half-orc by the sounds of it, whispers that you’re somewhere in the <s>Desertsmouth Mountains</s> Thunder Peaks and by Gruumsh he hopes they either kill you all or put you to work soon because it’s only going to get colder and darker the further north you ride.