The Warden

Though the Warden waits, our lips are sealed. We are not snitches, nor do we crumble before the cruelty of the law. The Warden smiles thinly. “Very well. You force my hand.”

Cracking the whip, he sets the prisoners move once more. But inside of drawing the carriage along the road, they instead rush towards us. Crying out, we scatter. When we look back, the carriage and its driver have vanished into the fog.

  • The party suffers the Curse of the Warden.

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