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Rolled 4, 4, 3, 5, 3, 1 = 20 (6d6)
The same path walked before follows the same route. The same dead dog lies in the shimmering heat. One of the scraghounds sniff it, disinterested. The flies buzz away in a cloud.
This whole place is <span class="mu-i">silent</span>. Should be a hundred people here, yeah, and any else come in for market making and trade-hawking. A bannerline of fluttering clothscraps get flicked about by the wind. Cute. Some local weave-craft of cloth and leaf and whatnot. Looks faintly like a line in the sand, that shadow it throws down from above. Edwards seen this sort of thing before. Ships have the too - good luck charms, fortune winds, little offerings to anyone watching to speed you on your way. Scarlett missed it earlier - mind more on mundane ground based matters.
Another dead dog lies with an arrow through it near the corner of the larger central building.
That makes two. Unusual, actually. Scraghound packs send out little scouts, more cunning than you'd give them credit for, but seldom more than one at once. Zivka gives it a once over. Definitively feral. Come in off of the deep wastes. They roam it by the thousands. Wouldn't normally risk a village centre, actually, but here it is, dead by arrows. Wounds look congealed. Call it two hours? Three? Might even have happened while you were all gathering your wits and resting in the shade, earlier. Odd that you didn't hear anything, if so.
There's a trace of smoke on the wind now, some distant burning thing. Smells like . . . a cook fire. Bread? More feasts, prepared in houses uneaten? A quick look through an opening into one of the nearby buildings show a table, set for three. Black bread, nice plates, a few gathered roots and berries.
Scarlett racks her mind for any scraps of recent book knowledge. The hounds paw and trace and try to chase down a scent.
>Senses 10, +2 Hounds
>Thoughts 9, Well Read
