The old man speaks up, a more fervent smile on his face, "Aye!! We be planning to camp outside Duvik's Pass. Fate sees to it we be safe on this trip after all!!
The camp is disbanded and the caravan sets out later that morning. The journey is peacful, the Fists and refugees traveling eastward, hugging the north side of the Serpantcoil Mountains. Neither orc nor undead abberation disturbs the squeeking of wheels or plodding of hoof agains loose trail dirt. By midafternoon, you turn south into the Pass. The usual faint taint of smoke from the workshops of Duvik's tanners and blacksmiths marks your breathing.
But something is different. As Duvik's Pass comes into view, you see hundreds of men working near the northside of town, erecting piles of stone and wooden fences between buildings, watched over by an inordinatly large band of armed guards.
Jericho and Bhartus: your instincts and experience tell you that the town is being fortified, probably against the possibility of impending assault.
When the procession of refugees comes to within a thousand feet of where men are working, twelve armed guards march towards the front of the caravan, blocking the trail. None of their faces are familiar.
One, sporting the swarthy complexion of a Southener, calls out in accented North Common, "Travelers! Have he who represents you state your intentions!!!"