Walking

The woman, being of average, that is, middling-short caucasian, appearance, saving only her minor disfigurements, such as the pock-marks that covered her left cheek, gained from a close call with the plague two years ago, and the scars on her right forearm, earned fighting off bandits that threatened the caravan, walked, staggering somewhat under her heavy load of supplies, needed for the refugee camp waiting five miles away, and the weight of her lack of sleep, of which she had been deprived while keeping watch for more enemies, such as the hell-hounds that had attacked five days ago and killed the caravan leader and two of the other refugees, leaving her the de facto leader, for the last three nights, down the road, away from the city, though in truth it was no more than a middling town by modern standards, of Sanctuariel, burned when the Southerners, seemingly everywhere as the Empire's army collapsed under the weight of the many calamaties that had overcome it in the last six years, came and slaughtered half the inhabitants, including the woman's husband and two children, before being forced off by the Sixth Legion, only half its pre-plague strength but still strong to defeat these Southerners, who counseled the survivors, mainly women and children, to seek shelter down the road.