Carrying flags, the thousand-odd refugees had not clustered into a single mass. Instead, they had split into dozens of groups of varying sizes, each led by one or more players, inching along the paths through the wooded mountains.
This was both good news and bad news.
The good news was that Chris could take the refugees in batches, without fearing that they would overwhelm the arrangements all at once.
The bad news was that the refugees were scattered through the mountains. Some had surely wandered into the woods on either side in search of food and gotten lost.
If no one intervened, they would be lucky if even five hundred of those thousand-odd people actually reached Bolas Fortress.
Judging by the sky that afternoon, there would probably be light rain that night... spring rain was perfectly normal, but the rainfall that had been worth its weight in gold in previous years was now deadly to the refugees.
With no other choice, Chris scraped together some workhorses and gave them to the players to ride.
Then he sent these riders out along the road to find and escort the refugee groups, clad in Stainless Steel Plate Armor that was purely for show.
Back at the fortress, Chris tossed all the ingredients originally intended for the victory banquet into great pots for a mixed stew. He fed the portions containing meat to the militia and laborers, then had them put up tents on the open ground.
The portions without meat were set aside for the refugees. They contained a little meat flavor and fat, but not much-just right for people with completely empty stomachs. They would be easy to digest and would not kill anyone through overeating.
Guided by the riders, the refugees began emerging from the mountain paths toward dusk, arriving