“Everybody UP!” Methos yelled. “Or be on what a demon will Sup.” The Cry from the Ring master roused the Refugees from their shock.
With a flurry of Movement, they gathered their stuff and rushed out (as fast as a caravan can go)… they headed out for a Day and a Night, their wagon weels cutting ruts through the burned out ground, before stopping.
“This is ridiculous,” snapped the Dwarven patriarch. “where are we going?”
“That’s right,” his wife exclaimed. “We cannot just be rushing like this without knowing where we be going!”
The other refugees realized the veracity of these statements…
“We should vote,” spoke the Sisters of Sirona, in unison.
“Vote on what?” that was the first time the Sidar had spoken, though he had always been a shadowy presence at every meal time.
“where we go.”
“how do we decide who gets to vote?”
“Money.” The Patriarch decided… those with, say, 10 gold, get a vote per 10 gold.
“As long as everyone gets a vote,” the sisters interjected.
Voting for escape target is open.