Was there no pure water in this forsaken land? Those who could scout and were able to returned to the motley assortment of holy men with only dust and new lines of worry etched upon their faces. The Broken Arc mountains had never been a forgiving nor patient land, but it had always had pockets of water for those who staked their claim in the wilder lands. Every thin creek, every hidden oasis had been polluted. The horribly discolored corpses that were left to rot gave life only to the most base form of scavengers to which there was no lack. Monsters from deep within the mountains had begun their own pilgrimage to the surface. The gases of the corpses gave the areas a miasma of rot. Of decay. Of hope defiled. Rib-cages picked clean and left as a testimony that life was not welcome here. The huddled masses of the survivors of the cursed carnival in the hands of the adventurers who debate openly of which of the "annoying ones" to sacrifice to the dark gods they allow to nibble at their morals. What chance do they have?
