You are sat in a campsite, chained in a line of four other prisoners, with three such chains in total.
You assume your wanderings, looking for purpose beyond the hills, took you here. Perhaps you rubbed certain people the wrong way.
On your chain is a young boy, who looks to be around seven years old, and a woman in her mid twenties. There are also two men who look like brothers. Everyone currently shackled, including yourself, you realize, is dirty, smells bad, and the two men especially, bruised and beaten beyond belief. Besides the prisoners, there are currently a few other men in the caravan, though one stands out to you more than the rest. He leads the pack, and though you don’t see his face, you can imagine what he looks like. You see a scarred face in your mind, with messy and untamed brown hair. He has a whip at his right side, and a knife at the other.
“Get up. We’re moving.” You hear a voice from the front of the caravan, little more than a whisper, but terrifying nonetheless. It’s from the leader of the men, who continues. “Or I’ll make you.” He rests his hand on his side where the whip lies. It’s a threat, you can tell that much. The rest of your line starts to stand up, but it’s difficult with so many bodies in such a small area. Your previous pain still plagues you, and the journey from the ground is impossible.
The most excruciating of which stems from your leg. You look down, seeing a torn red cloth wrapped around it. Where it was from, you don't know. Perhaps the slavers were so kind as to bandage your wound, but you doubt it.
The young woman, seemingly in her mid twenties. Looks at you, concern written all over her eyes. "You need to get up, please. Before they look over."
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