“Ah the Goldleaf Farm!” Aldrick exclaimed as the entrance to the modest residence came into view. It was situated in a fenced off area separate from the fields surrounding it, and featured a small pond and a detached structure with multiple doors surrounding it. “Good folk they are, and room enough for travellers! Though,” he paused and looked over his shoulders at the trailing Marienne and Enyo, “they may be less-than-hospitable to some.” He winked and turned his head back forward.

“Might even be lucky and have Goodsir Goldleaf part with some of his private stock, eh Aldrick?” Egar chided his brother, as if referencing some by-gone event.

“It’s early in the harvest yet, brother. Very likely indeed!” he said with some excitement.

Ixar interrupted the exchange curtly, “We’ll be to Wellington and back before the sun sets I’m sure. You can do whatever you wish with your coin after the job is done.”

“Of course, of course,” Aldrick motioned as if he was waving away the thought, “besides, can’t have any of the Goldleafs’ daughters thinkin’ us ineligible in the company of you lot.”

Enyo saw an opening. “I doubt your choice of female companions would be the first thing that disqualified you.”

“Probably at least the sixth,” Marienne added.

The two exchanged and look, both smiling in approval.

Egar was the one to stop and wheel around, the blow striking something in him. “Oh just you wait and see, witches. They’ll be swoonin’ in the streets once me ‘n Aldrick are the most feared mercs in Avar!”

“I would like to see that actually,” Enyo retorted, “but don’t take offense if I don’t hold my breath in anticipation of the day.”

Egar held her gaze for a moment before making a disapproving click with his tongue and catching back up with his brother.

Another half-hour of travel in silence brought them to the fork in the road. Continuing West would mean they would finish the days travel at Fort Eastmarch. Traveling North, however, would send them to Wellington and the foothills of the Eastmarch Mountains. It was rough terrain, and Wellington was the only town in this part of the Confederacy accessible by the main road. All the other major mining towns were located towards the Eastern edge of the mountains, where the foothills were less aggressive in their march towards the sea. Naturally, they headed North.

The last leg to Wellington was desolate in Enyo’s eyes. Torgar was heavily forested, a borderline jungle. Her home back in the Creation Islands was no forest, but the tropical vegetation was abundant and groves of trees a common sight on even the smallest land masses. The foothills were craggy and covered in hardy grasses, which stood in stark comparison to the amber grasslands stretching into the farmland visible from miles with their ever-increasing elevation. However, as they drew closer to the base of the mountains, the canopies of evergreens shot skyward. These were trees either ill-suited for the shipyards, or too inaccessible to be worth the cost of transport to the shipwrights and their suppliers. By no means were the dense canopies — but Enyo knew from this distance each individual tree was likely a spectacle in its own right.

Their pace had slowed over the rough terrain, but true to Ixar’s word, the next two hours of travel brought them at last to semi-sure footing. Before them, a scant few miles in the distance, the hearths of Wellington gently plumed. It was an idyllic sight compared to the prior countryside to Enyo — the town was no more than a few dozen buildings of simple construction nestled into the shadows of the peaks above them. A large lake glittered under the sun high in the sky, the path to the town taking a winding sweep to the East of the lake before entering the town. On the West bank, a surprisingly dense and shrubby collection of trees wedged itself between the lake and the sheer cliffs. No road nor even foot path branched off that direction. They pressed on toward their destination.

No guards slowed their entrance to the village. Indeed, no one seemed to be doing much of anything. Ixar felt her training kick in as she eyed the buildings suspiciously, straining to hear any movement. She relaxed as they went deeper, as she started to hear the sounds of domestic work and then a loud burst of laughter from what seemed to be the tavern further up the gentle slope to the base of the mountains.

Even Aldrick perked up at the crack of laughter. “Sounds like we won’t need the Goldleaf reserve after all, Egar!”

“Aye brother,” Egar replied with a grin and a hopefully glance towards Ixar.

Ixar ignored the pair. Just past the sign for The Pickled Minnow she could discern the traditional Confederacy-styled townhouse that marked the mayor’s seat. She blew past the tavern, offering over her shoulder “I’ll check-in with the mayor and see what needs to be done. Wait in the tavern while I figure out if we need to do anything else.

Her companions obeyed, and they filed into The Pickled Minnow. The inside had a comfortable volume even though it was occupied by roughly a dozen men dressed in miner’s outfits. Enyo noticed their clothes were remarkably clean for belonging to miners in a mining town. A few tossed the group some glances, a few further doing a double-take to make sure they actually saw an elf and a demonkin adventurer. That earned a few murmurs from the small crowd, since their kind were rarer this far East.

“Welcome to The Pickled Minnow adventurers!” The balding and portly tavern keeper greeted them, and motioned to a vacant bench. “If you need anything, just ask. We’ve plenty of stock.”

The brothers grabbed a couple of pints each, while Enyo and Marienne refilled their water skins. The brothers exchanged their usual banter as they drained their pints to pass the time until Ixar returned.

Ixar ducked under the entry-way to the townhouse, relieved to find the ceilings much more accommodating. Her eyes adjusted to the dimly-lit interior, resting on the elderly human male scribbling away at parchments surrounded by scrolls and bills. He had not yet noticed his visitor. She did her best approximation of a throat-clearing that a dragonkin could before speaking, “Mayor Wellington?”

The man seemed to jump slightly, and adjusted his small spectacles. “Hm? Yes I’m Mayor Wellington — oh! You must be from the Adventurer’s Guild.”

“That’s correct. Ironscale Iron Works sent us to investigate the situation with the mine?”

“Yes,” his eyes drifted to the papers scattered around the desk,”production has been problematic lately. I’m sure you noticed all the workers are forced to idle.”

“Is there a problem with the mine, Mayor?” Ixar tilted her head curiously. For some reason, she hadn’t expected him to so forth-coming about the issue.

“Did your companion not send word? A tribe of goblins appeared out of nowhere and occupied the currently productive arms of the mine.”

“My companion?” Ixar was genuinely confused. There shouldn’t be anyone else involved.

“Yes, strange fellow. Human, broad. Carried a big sword. Anyway, he went into the mine yesterday and has yet to report back.”

None of this added up to Ixar. No one had sent word back to the guild. They had seen to it, in fact, that there was no one else to even send word at all. Who exactly was this?

“Ah yes,” she replied, “I brought four of my companions as well. You say he hasn’t come back? He must be waiting for us to make his move.”

“Oh excellent,” the mayor seemed genuinely relieved to hear it, “hopefully this nonsense can be behind us soon and you can inform the Ironscales their orders will be fulfilled again.”

“Let’s hope so, Mayor Wellington.” Ixar punctuated the words with a slight hint of malice. “Now, excuse me. We mustn’t waste anymore time or resources.”

With that, Ixar turned to leave and gather her companions at The Pickled Minnow.