Leaving Moüd is an introductory piece of fiction by Neal Litherland for Moüd: The City of Bones, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

“Leaving us so soon?” the young man with the orcish teeth and the rakish glint in his eyes asked as he leaned on the counter. The rustle of parchment maps filled the travel station as other customers planned their routes, and cool air puffed out from grates in the floor where water ran. “It might look pretty straightforward as cities go, but I can promise you that Moüd’s got secrets worth digging for.”

“I’m sure it does,” Argor said, putting on a smile that was trying to be polite but wasn’t quite managing. “But we’ve done all we came here to do.”

The orc-blooded man shrugged, as if to say their business was none of his, before spreading his hands on the wooden counter top. “What direction are you going, and when would you like to start going there?”

“To the coast,” Argor said. “And as soon as can be arranged.”

The young man pursed his lips, his eyelids narrowing slightly. He looked like a big cat contemplating a course of action. “One of the sand trains leaves this evening, traveling through the night.”

“That-” Argor started to say before Ceravil cut him off.

“Will be fine,” she said, offering a smile of her own. She felt Argor’s irritated gaze on her, but wouldn’t turn to meet it. “We had an unfortunate accident coming here in the first place. Better to trust the guild when it comes to getting out of the desert.”

“Hard-learned wisdom,” the man said, nodding hard enough to make his long braids sway. “And a lesson I wish I could teach others who come through here.”

He named a price. Argor bristled slightly, and the negotiation began. Ceravil stepped away to let Argor do what he was best at, running her eyes over the maps and pamphlets. Silkgift caught her eye, as did Hoardreach. Those places were far from here, but after the sights they’d seen in the City of Bones, she felt a need for a change. The smell of a clean sea, or the sights of a place of wonder she’d only ever heard about. Behind her Argor opened his coin purse, carefully counted a fee, and handed it over.

“I’ll send word when your passage has been arranged,” the man said, giving them another grin that showed off his too-long lower tusks. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

“I never want to set foot here again,” Argor grumbled as they turned their steps to the heat of the street. “The dead stay below, the living stay above. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

“You say that now,” Ceravil said, clucking her tongue and smiling slightly. She watched as the newest arrivals to Moüd came down the street, bearing the accents and fashions of a dozen different lands. She smelled the scents of spices and cooking meats, and looked off in the distance at the bulk of the city’s hanging gardens. “Once the chill in your skin fades, you’ll remember this place more fondly.”

He grunted, but Ceravil knew. The footsore miles and uncomfortable seats always faded from Argor’s memory, but the wonders he saw in their travels always lingered.

Travelling to Moüd is an introductory piece of fiction by Neal Litherland for Moüd: The City of Bones, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

The desert wind howled beyond the walls of the stranded wagons. Ceravil had her hood pulled low, and a cloth wrapped around her mouth and nose to keep the gusts of sand out. Argor had a blanket around his shoulders, and his head down. They’d been stranded for days now, buried by the wind and sand up to the broken axle that had left them in such dire straits. The ox had died, its leg snapping when it stumbled, and they’d had to put it out of its agony quickly. Accusations had been thrown, arguments had started and fears vented… now they sat in tired silence waiting to see if the desert would devour them or not.

Then they heard it; a rhythmic thumping sound. It was far away at first, but it grew steadily closer. It was joined by the creak of hawsers, and the shushing of sand skids. Argor kept his head down, but Ceravil’s ears all but twitched as she listened… and hoped. The sounds stopped close enough that the sand shifted, and made the broken down wagon lurch. Ceravil loosened the knot on the back flap, and stepped out into the blowing storm.

Something loomed nearby; a shrouded form that towered over the wagon. It was wrapped in black cloth, but white tusks protruded from its skull. Beneath the head, a flap shifted. A man in a gray cloak looked down at Ceravil, seated on a pillowed bench resting in the colossal creature’s rib cage.

“How many are you?” he yelled over the howling winds.

“Two,” Ceravil shouted back.

“No beasts?” the driver asked, holding back the flap as the wind tried to snap it. The silver skull on his hand gleamed, even in the dimness of the sand storm.

“No!” Ceravil said, shaking her head hard.

“There’s room,” the drover said, gesturing over his shoulder at the train of wooden wagons on sand skids. “Be quick! If we stop for too long even Milara won’t be able to pull us out!”

Ceravil nodded, and ran back to her wagon, stumbling in the storm. Argor was on his feet, his eyes shining with hope.

“Grab the strongbox,” Ceravil snarled at him. “And the hesh bag. The Wraiths will want their due when we get where we’re going.”

Argor looked like he wanted to spit, but he kept his words behind his teeth. He snatched up the heavy leather satchel, and kicked the secret panel of the wagon open. He pulled out the strongbox, and the small parcels of valuable goods they’d squirreled away. The necromancers of Moüd would get their gold, and with a little luck they’d still have enough left to turn this disaster in a profit in the City of Bones.