You are part of a caravan of performers traveling across the salt wastes to avoid the empress' heavy tolls. There is the ringmaster, and the seven of you: a vari-bunch of entertainers and laborers, some having traveled with the show for years, others only newly joined in Sashem, the last slice of civilization you have known since setting out weeks ago.
Under the guidance of Terep, a young local guide who has family in Kerkat, your destination, you have made good time, relatively speaking. And today she comes running to you across the plain, her unstrung bow bouncing on her back. Soon it is made clear that she has found an old merchant's road, one known to few: one leading out of the flats and through a pass, one with decent shelter for the night, as storm season was upon the land. And so the muddy wagons and people and animals set out.
Hours later you all reach shelter, and set camp for the night. Odo the ringmaster, in a rarely benevolent mood, hands out bottles of rum, and sweetcakes and scented teas, each of you imbibing as your tastes dictate.
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And so night falls over the muddy gullet: some go to sleep, some do not.