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.