Down The Road

Garthariel “Art”, Gnome from Tarren’s Junction.
See that lady wearing brown? She makes her livin' goin' down... She's a deep-sea diver... a deep sea diver
See that fella wearing black? He makes ‘is livin' on his back... he's a backstroke swimmer... a backstroke swimmer
Garth thought sitting with the Mirrax Marines would make the trip to Lycia slightly more enjoyable and relaxed, but instead it was moving between titillating and migraine inducing. The Marines didn’t seem to know what to do with themselves, when there were no ropes to pull or...knots to tie, or whatever it was that sailors did. So they sang and they drank and they pushed each other off the carts.
Art tried to enjoy it. She’d joined the expedition as a laborer, dying her hair and cutting it short so as not to be recognised. She had never held a hammer before, but how hard could it be? She’d gone to university after all. She’d held a pen, perhaps one too many time. Hammers must be easy by comparison.
Once she got to Lycia, things would be easy. The people who were looking for her wouldn’t bother searching outside of the cities. They only wanted her to leave, anyway, and she was doing that, but on her own terms. 
The rhythm of the trip was actually pretty nice. Breakfast would be salted meat, cheese, and wine from one of the bags the Marines had stashed around the wagons. Then a few hours of awful bagpiping, that the Marines would try to drown out with singing. She had been issued some earplugs, but the magical music made her feel younger than she had in years. 
Lunch was a quick affair like breakfast, with everyone keen to get moving while the light was good. Then brandy from the Marines (it was bad luck to drink brandy before lunch, she’d been told) and it was time for everyone to have a nap, draw, or pursue whatever hobbies one could on a rocking wagon on an increasingly rough road.
Dinner did not happen until the last of the light was gone and it was time to make camp. But when it was finally ready, dinner was an experience. There was some effort made to build a sense of community among the workers, so there were games played by torchlight, cooking, and more singing. There was one sport that involved throwing multiple head-sized balls of cotton-filled leather. She couldn’t make out the rules, and was pretty sure that no one much cared about such things. Teams were formed, players exchanged, the number of balls changed as some were lost and new ones made. They were in for many months of tough labor - earning good coin - but tough nonetheless. Once they got there, people would need to cooperate and live in very basic conditions, so a general aura of familiarity was needed.
Then sleep, then the cycle would continue.
Art felt terrible. She wasn’t young, and her bones felt the rattle of the wagon long after it’d stopped. Her hair, normally a dull green had been dyed black to help her avoid notice, and she was wearing rough working clothes, rather than the silks she was used to.
Still, it was better than the alternative.
Art took another sip of wine from the bag, before handing it back to the Marine. He bones hurt, her head hurt, and her hands hurt from where she’d practiced with a hammer. What friends she had made among the Marines would be heading further into a swamp, leaving her alone again.
Maybe, maybe Lycia would be really nice.