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Rolled 4, 6, 1, 6, 1, 1 = 19 (6d6)
While Crushfist and Wicklighter fuss over the scraghound and the locals, the rest of the column shakes itself into a slow, gradual march again. Having stolen a few minutes of respite from the sun in the avenues of the cliffs and shadows of old crumbled buildings, everyone is feeling ready for a few more minutes of dusty road.
The old entrance way to the village slips into sight, around a bend. Used to be grand things. You find them everywhere. Boundary markers for territory. Sometimes there's nice statues attached, or little poems in unreadable script.
These days its mostly crumbling away. Wind isn't kind to the stone facades and the villagers don't have the tools, the training or the trick to keep it repaired. Nor do they want to. It was here before they arrived.
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