Recollections of a questioning priest
The wounds stung less than the humiliation of fleeing from the zombies. Wounds were preferable... They would heal. Still, the goal was survival, no? Even Tempus understood that there were lost causes and what honor lies in dying when there was no chance of success. Right?
When we regroup the refugees want to know what to do, like anything has changed. We walk, ride, whatever, to Baldur’s Gate. I suppose they could pick another destination and my comrades and I would take them there. No, we would take them there, but travel is the only thing that makes sense. Bricet wants to let them choose but they won’t even take up arms to defend themselves so why should they have any say. So, I had to give them a dose of reality. I doubt they liked it or like me any more. I don’t care. The next day, morale is low, but they move which is all that matters. They can cry all they want so long as they put one foot in front of the other.
Another two days, three? The hunters are out and bringing in food, which helps. We also are seeing more refugees on boats coming down the river. Some even stop to trade whatever last goods they can and I think about just taking one of the boats. It would be easy enough, but there is no honor in slaughtering refugees. My decision is easier than fleeing the zombies.
Finally, a sign of civilization. We discover a patrol of the Flaming Fist and, surprise of all surprises, they are friendly. I think it gives the others hope, but I know that without a solid plan for relief they may as well be refugees too. Well armed ones for sure. They point us in the direction of Baldurs Gate, but have no real knowledge of what we might be getting into.
More signs of civilization, small groups of refugees have set up, for lack of a better word, towns along the road. We decide to avoid them when possible though I hope some of their toughs try to attack us. Sadly, they let us pass and it is only another few days travel before we see it, the giant shithole of a refugee camp that surrounds Baldurs Gate like puss around an infected wound. The refugees want to wait in line to see if they can get inside despite Mouse finding that entrance seems unlikely and that the camp is run by gangs, two so far but there are likely many more. It’s not a safe place, but we decide to stay a week, maybe more, to see what we can see and protect the refugees for a bit longer. I’ll leave the reconnaissance to the others. I must seek communion with Tempus.