The pale light of early morning had begun to seep over the rough-hewn stone buildings of Dustreach, casting long, muted shadows that stretched across the dusty ground. ProlixalParagon, weary from his night in the Wastes but carrying the hard-won trophies of his efforts, sought a quiet corner near the edge of the Vermillion Troupe's encampment. The air was still cool, carrying the faint, persistent tang of black salt that seemed to cling to everything in the village. Before seeking out Marx, he willed his stat sheet into existence, the familiar translucent window shimmering into view.
His glowing eyes scanned the familiar categories. He was now Level 4, a testament to his unexpected and perilous journey through the salt flats and the Hollow Quarry. The remnants of the previous night’s exertion still lingered as ‘Tired I’ and ‘Hungry I’ under Active Status Effects. He noted the three unspent attribute points and the one unspent affinity point that pulsed gently beside his experience bar, reminders of his recent level up.
He considered his current attributes. His Strength remained at 9, a reflection of his initial focus on Dexterity and Intelligence. The encounter with the Quarry Mauler had underscored the need for greater physical resilience. With a decisive mental command, he allocated one of his attribute points to Strength, watching as the number ticked upwards to 10. It was a small increase, but he hoped it would lend him a slightly more solid foundation, both in future confrontations and in the practical tasks of a Tinkerer.
Next, his gaze fell upon his Dexterity, currently at 12. His agility had served him well in evading the Salt-Hollow Stalkers and maneuvering within the treacherous quarry. As a Fennician, known for their nimbleness, enhancing this felt natural. He allocated another attribute point to Dexterity, bringing it to 13. He felt a subtle shift within his digital form, a slight quickening of his reflexes that promised to be beneficial in future close calls.
Finally, he turned his attention to his unspent affinity point. He had already invested one point in Metal, a choice that resonated with his Tinkerer class. However, his encounter with Ralyria, the reactivated automaton, had sparked a different kind of understanding, a connection that seemed to transcend mere mechanical comprehension. He recalled her fragmented memories, the "echoes of thoughts". Intuitively, he felt a pull towards the more esoteric aspects of existence. With a mental confirmation, he allocated his final affinity point to Soul, his connection to Metal now joined by a nascent affinity for the intangible essence of being. His affinities were now listed as Metal: 1 and Soul: 1.
Satisfied with his choices, ProlixalParagon dismissed his stat sheet, the ethereal glow fading into the dim morning light. He reached into the pouch at his belt, his fingers brushing against the rough texture of the mana-threaded salt cedar, the smooth coolness of the obsidian resin vial, and the crystalline edges of the Echo Shard. The weight of these items was more than just physical; they represented his commitment to Marx and his defiance against the narrow-mindedness of some of Dustreach’s inhabitants.
He made his way through the awakening encampment of the Vermillion Troupe, the colorful vardos and the larger Conestogas slowly coming to life. He caught Lyra near her wagon, already attending to the early morning tasks. He offered a brief nod, but his focus was now on finding Marx.
He retraced his steps towards the small alcove between the stone buildings where he had left the woodcarver the previous evening. The air here felt a little quieter, separated from the general bustle of the village. He found Marx seated on his low stool, his single hazel eye fixed on a new piece of wood, his nimble fingers already at work with his small, sharp knife.
“Good morning, Marx,” ProlixalParagon said, his voice carrying softly in the still air.
Marx looked up, a flicker of surprise crossing his weathered face before settling back into a more neutral expression. He laid down his knife, his gaze inquisitive. “The fox returns. Find your way back from the Wastes alright?”
ProlixalParagon approached, his long marbled tail swaying gently. He reached into his pouch and carefully placed the three gathered items on the small wooden crate beside Marx. The rough, pale branch of the mana-threaded salt cedar, the dark, viscous obsidian resin in its vial, and the shimmering, multifaceted Crystallized Echo Shard lay before the woodcarver.
Marx’s single eye widened slightly as he took in the materials. He reached out a calloused hand, his fingers tracing the contours of the salt cedar, then carefully picking up the vial of obsidian resin, holding it up to the nascent sunlight. Finally, he reached for the Echo Shard, its crystalline surface catching the light and scattering it in a myriad of tiny rainbows.
A low grunt escaped his lips, a sound that held a mixture of surprise and something akin to awe. He looked up at ProlixalParagon, a question forming in his gaze.
“You… you actually went,” he said, his voice a little rough.
ProlixalParagon met his gaze steadily. “You needed these.”
A slow nod. Marx picked up the mana-threaded salt cedar, turning it over in his hands. “This… this is good. Strong, resilient. It will hold the runes.” He then examined the obsidian resin. “And the resin… pure. This will bind well.” Finally, he held the Crystallized Echo Shard, its faint hum almost imperceptible. “The echo… this is the heart of it.”
He looked back at ProlixalParagon, a hint of something softening his usually stoic features. “I… I didn’t expect you to truly do this, caravaner.”
ProlixalParagon shrugged slightly. “Someone needed to.” He recalled his earlier thoughts, the echoes of his own experiences with being underestimated. This wasn't just about a quest; it was about recognizing a shared struggle.
Marx remained silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the collected materials. Then, with a resolute nod, he picked up his tools. “Well then,” he said, a newfound purpose in his voice. “No time to waste. These won’t craft themselves.”
A soft shimmer appeared at the corner of ProlixalParagon’s vision, confirming the completion of his task:
>Quest Completed: Timber, Blood, and Salt<
>Reward: 750 XP, Unique Item: Marx’s Woven Cuff (Accessory — +1 Dexterity, +5% Mana Efficiency), Reputation with Dustreach +10, Reputation with Marx +10.<
ProlixalParagon smiled faintly. The experience was welcome, and the increase in reputation with both Marx and Dustreach suggested a shift in the village’s perception, however small. The promise of a unique item was intriguing.
“I should let you get to work then, Marx,” ProlixalParagon said, turning to leave the alcove. “I trust you’ll create something remarkable.”
Marx nodded, his single eye already focused on the salt cedar. “Aye, fox. I will.”
As ProlixalParagon rejoined the gentle stirrings of the morning in Dustreach, a sense of quiet satisfaction settled within him. The night had been fraught with danger, but it had yielded more than just quest items. It had forged a connection with a fellow outsider and perhaps, in its own small way, challenged the prejudices that lingered in this village of salt and wool. The Wastes had tested him, and he had not only survived but had also taken another step forward on his unexpected journey.
ProlixalParagon watched as Marx carefully examined the mana-threaded salt cedar, the obsidian resin, and the Crystallized Echo Shard, a quiet sense of satisfaction settling within him . The woodcarver's initial skepticism had clearly shifted to a focused intent as he handled the rare materials . Recalling Lyra's direct offer to Marx and his own conviction that the woodcarver would find a place within the Vermillion Troupe, ProlixalParagon decided now was the opportune moment to broach the subject.
“Marx,” ProlixalParagon began, his Fennician-tinged voice carrying softly over the early morning sounds of Dustreach . “As you work on this… special project of yours,” he gestured towards the materials laid out on the crate, “have you given any further thought to the offer I mentioned before? About perhaps… joining the Vermillion Troupe?”
Marx paused his examination of the obsidian resin, his single hazel eye flicking up to meet ProlixalParagon’s glowing gaze . A moment of silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant bleating of sheep and the faint stirrings of the awakening village . Marx’s expression was thoughtful, his brow furrowed in concentration, but there was a distinct lack of the earlier defensiveness or outright dismissal.
“The traveling players,” Marx said finally, his voice a low rumble. He picked up the Crystallized Echo Shard, turning it slowly in his calloused fingers, its facets catching the pale morning light . “Your offer…and Lyras backing it… it was unexpected.” He hesitated, a rare vulnerability showing in his gaze. “A man like me… with one good leg and a pile of broken dreams…”
ProlixalParagon shook his head gently, his long, marbled tail swaying slightly . “Lyra’s troupe, Marx, seems to value more than just physical perfection. They carry stories, they create beauty, they offer companionship. You yourself said that your carvings ‘bring joy, they inspire, they connect us to the world in a different way’. Those are qualities the Vermillion Troupe embraces.” He remembered Lyra’s sharp nod and her words, “Troupe’s for those worth having, not those perfect by someone else’s measure”.
Marx was silent for another long moment, his gaze fixed on the Echo Shard. He seemed to be weighing ProlixalParagon’s words against his own experiences and perhaps against the ingrained pragmatism of Dustreach. The village’s focus on the harsh realities of black salt and wool production often overshadowed more artistic pursuits.
Finally, he sighed, a sound that held a hint of resignation mixed with a nascent hope. “Aye,” he said, his gaze returning to ProlixalParagon, a newfound clarity in his single eye. “I have. Given it thought, that is.” He set the Echo Shard back down carefully. “And… well, a man can only whittle away at the same few scraps of wood for so long before the dust starts to choke the spirit.”
A small smile flickered across ProlixalParagon’s muzzle . “So…?” he prompted gently.
Marx nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. “So, I reckon… I reckon I will join you.” A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth hinted at a long-dormant excitement. “Lyra seems… a sensible sort. And the idea of seeing something beyond the salt flats and the same few stone faces… it has a certain appeal, I won’t lie.”
ProlixalParagon felt a surge of satisfaction . “That’s… that’s wonderful, Marx. I know Lyra and the rest of the troupe will welcome you.”
However, Marx held up a hand, his expression becoming more practical once again . “Hold your horses there, fox. I’m not packing my meager belongings this instant.” He gestured to the materials on the crate. “This… this prosthetic. It’s important. Not just for me.” He looked towards the village, a hint of his earlier conversation with Martha, Maggie's mother, perhaps coloring his thoughts. “I need to finish it. It’s… a promise I made, in a way.”
ProlixalParagon nodded understandingly. “Of course. No one expects you to leave before you’re ready. The Vermillion Troupe will likely be here for at least another day, perhaps longer, as we prepare to journey further south, towards the Draggor Kingdom’s border.” He knew the logistics of moving a caravan of vardo and Conestoga wagons were not insignificant. “Take the time you need to complete your work.”
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Marx picked up the mana-threaded salt cedar again, a renewed focus in his gaze . “And then there’s my… things.” He glanced around his small alcove, filled with various tools, half-finished carvings, and the remnants of his solitary existence . “Years of a solitary life leave a man with… habits. And clutter.”
“We can help with that, if you like,” ProlixalParagon offered. “Many hands make light work, as they say.” He imagined the practical-minded members of the Vermillion Troupe efficiently organizing Marx’s belongings.
Marx grunted, a hint of amusement in the sound. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that, fox. But first… this.” He held up the salt cedar. “This piece of wood has waited long enough to sing again. And I aim to make it sing a song worth traveling for.” He turned his attention back to the materials, his nimble fingers already reaching for his tools, a sense of purpose radiating from him .
ProlixalParagon watched him for a moment longer, a quiet sense of anticipation building within him. Bringing Marx into the Vermillion Troupe felt like more than just fulfilling Lyra’s offer; it felt like weaving another thread into the vibrant tapestry of the caravan. He had a feeling that Marx’s unique skills and perspective would be a valuable addition to their community.
“I should let you get to work then, Marx,” ProlixalParagon said, preparing to leave the woodcarver to his task . “But please, don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything I can do to assist, either with your project or your… packing.”
Marx nodded, his single eye already intent on the wood. “Aye, fox. Will do. And thank you… for not looking away.” His words echoed ProlixalParagon’s own thoughts from the previous night, a silent acknowledgment of the connection they had forged.
ProlixalParagon turned and made his way back towards the Vermillion Troupe’s encampment . The early morning light was growing stronger, casting a warm glow over the colorful vardo wagons. He had good news to share with Lyra, and a feeling that the journey ahead, towards Dustreach and beyond, had just become a little more interesting, a little more hopeful.
The sounds of merriment reached ProlixalParagon even before the colorful cluster of vardo wagons came fully into view. The air, still carrying the faint metallic tang of Dustreach’s salt, was now interwoven with the cheerful strains of music – a rapid, rhythmic strumming of what sounded like a lute, punctuated by the lighter, more percussive beats of small hand-held drums. Over this lively melody rose the unmistakable sound of children’s laughter, bright and uninhibited, a joyful counterpoint to the more somber atmosphere that had lingered after their hurried departure from Pella and the unsettling encounter with the Dustshade Revenant.
ProlixalParagon’s pace quickened slightly, his weariness from the night in the Wastes momentarily forgotten in the pull of the familiar sounds of the Vermillion Troupe. His white fur, the swirls and patterns of rich black stark against the ochre dust that still clung faintly to his coat, moved with a renewed spring in his digitigrade steps. He could almost picture the scene unfolding: Elara’s nimble fingers dancing across the strings of her lute, perhaps a mischievous glint in her eye as she engaged with the younger members of the troupe. The children, their earlier anxieties seemingly forgotten in the joy of the performance, would likely be gathered close, their bushy tails twitching with delight, their glowing eyes wide with fascination.
As he rounded the last of the sturdy stone structures that marked the edge of the village's more permanent dwellings and approached the open area where the Vermillion Troupe had made their temporary camp, the scene came into sharper focus. Several of the intricately painted vardo wagons formed a semi-circle, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the muted tones of Dustreach. In the center of this makeshift stage, Elara indeed sat perched on a small, overturned crate, her red fur a vivid splash of color, her lute held lovingly in her paws. Her head bobbed to the rhythm as her fingers flew across the strings, weaving a lively air that seemed to pulse with energy.
Gathered around her were a throng of Fennician children, ranging in age from the tiny Larka, her small, white fur now clean and a small bandage visible on her flank, to slightly older kits with fur in shades of russet, cream, and the striking silver ProlixalParagon had noticed before. Their laughter punctuated the music, erupting in joyous bursts as Elara made exaggerated gestures or sang playful lyrics in the melodic clicks and trills of the Fennician tongue. Some of the children were mimicking her movements, their small paws attempting to strum imaginary instruments, their youthful energy infectious.
Nearer the edge of the circle, some of the adult members of the Vermillion Troupe looked on with fond smiles. Nara, her warm brown fur radiating a gentle calm, sat with a few of the younger teenagers, occasionally interjecting with a quiet remark that would elicit another round of giggles. Even some of the quieter goblin members of the troupe could be seen tapping their six-fingered hands to the beat, a rare display of outward enjoyment. The air felt lighter, the shared joy of the performance a welcome balm after the anxieties of the previous day and night.
Lyra was not among the immediate audience, but ProlixalParagon spotted the silver-furred elder near her elaborately painted vardo, engaged in a quiet conversation with another adult Fennician. He would approach her soon, eager to share the news of Marx’s decision. For now, though, he paused at the edge of the gathering, allowing himself a moment to soak in the scene. The vibrant music, the unrestrained laughter, the sense of community and resilience radiating from the Vermillion Troupe – this was the heart of their nomadic existence. It was a powerful reminder of why he had felt so drawn to them, and why he had been so willing to help Marx find a place within their fold. The road to Dustreach had been fraught with unexpected challenges, but the spirit of the Vermillion Troupe, it seemed, remained unbroken.
ProlixalParagon made his way through the awakening encampment of the Vermillion Troupe, the colorful vardos and the larger Conestogas slowly coming to life amidst the rough-hewn stone buildings of Dustreach. The air, still carrying the faint, persistent tang of black salt, was now also intermingled with the sounds of early risers – the soft murmur of voices, the clatter of cooking utensils, and the gentle nicker of their beasts of burden. He spotted Lyra near her elaborately painted vardo wagon, the lunar motifs already catching the pale light of the rising sun. The silver-furred elder was engaged in conversation with Elara, whose red fur seemed to glow in the morning light, both women gesturing towards one of the larger wagons.
ProlixalParagon approached with a quiet grace, his digitigrade steps making little sound on the dusty ground. He waited a respectful moment until there was a natural pause in their discussion before offering a soft greeting. “Good morning, Lyra. Elara.” His Fennician-tinged voice carried a note of satisfaction, a subtle undercurrent of the success of his recent endeavor.
Lyra turned her golden eyes towards him, a warm smile gracing her silver muzzle. “ProlixalParagon, you are stirring early. Did your night travels prove… fruitful?” Her gaze held a knowing glint, a hint that she had perhaps suspected the nature of his nocturnal absence. Elara offered a bright nod, her curiosity evident in her expressive features.
“Indeed, Lyra,” ProlixalParagon replied, his long, marbled tail giving a gentle sway. “The materials Marx needed… they have been acquired.” He gestured subtly in the direction of the alcove where he had left the woodcarver, though Marx himself was not visible from their current location.
Lyra’s smile widened slightly, a hint of approval in her ancient eyes. “The stubborn old craftsman will be pleased, I imagine. He carries a heavy weight of… perceived inadequacy, does he not?” She spoke softly, her understanding of the village dynamics evident.
“He does,” ProlixalParagon affirmed. “But he has a keen mind and skilled hands. He was already at work when I returned this morning, eager to begin crafting the prosthetic.” He paused, taking a breath before delivering the more significant part of his news. “And… I also had the opportunity to speak with him further, Lyra. About your generous offer.”
Lyra’s gaze sharpened, her full attention now focused on him. Elara, sensing the shift in conversation, also turned, her red ears swiveling slightly in anticipation. “And?” Lyra prompted gently, her voice carrying a note of hopeful curiosity.
“He has accepted,” ProlixalParagon announced, a quiet sense of triumph in his tone. “Marx has agreed to join the Vermillion Troupe when we leave Dustreach.”
A soft gasp escaped Elara, her eyes widening in pleasant surprise. “That’s wonderful news!” she exclaimed, her earlier conversation seemingly forgotten in this new development.
Lyra’s reaction was more measured, but no less heartfelt. A slow, genuine smile spread across her face, crinkling the corners of her golden eyes. “I had a good feeling about that one,” she murmured, more to herself than to them. “There is a fire in his spirit, a resilience that reminds me of the best of our people, even if his outward demeanor is a bit… prickly.” She chuckled softly, a dry, rustling sound that was characteristic of her. “The troupe can always use another pair of skilled hands, and a sharp mind is a treasure in itself.”
“He is eager to finish the prosthetic he is working on first,” ProlixalParagon explained, anticipating Lyra’s practical considerations. “It is important to him, a promise of sorts. He asked for a little time to complete it before we depart.”
Lyra nodded sagely, her understanding of Marx’s situation evident. “That is more than reasonable. A craftsman’s word is his bond. We are not leaving this moment, and a few more days in Dustreach will allow us to replenish our own supplies and perhaps offer another performance for the villagers.” She considered this for a moment, her gaze thoughtful. “In fact, perhaps Elara, you could speak with some of the local contacts. See if there is interest in another show tonight or tomorrow. The news of a new addition to our troupe might even draw a larger crowd.”
Elara’s tail gave an enthusiastic swish. “A wonderful idea, Lyra! I’m sure the children, at least, would be thrilled for more music and stories.” She cast a curious glance at ProlixalParagon. “Perhaps Marx could even showcase some of his woodworking? It would be a unique addition to our usual fare.”
“He mentioned that his carvings ‘bring joy, they inspire, they connect us to the world in a different way’,” ProlixalParagon recalled, quoting Marx’s earlier words. “I believe his craft would be well-received.”
Lyra nodded in agreement. “It seems our journey is about to become a little more… colorful,” she remarked, her golden eyes twinkling with amusement. “Thank you, ProlixalParagon, for your efforts, both in assisting Marx and in extending our invitation. You have a good eye for character, young one.” She reached out a paw and gently clapped his shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie and appreciation. “Now, perhaps we should let the old woodcarver focus on his work. But later, once he has had a chance to make progress, we should properly welcome him into our fold.” She looked towards the rising sun, its light now bathing the encampment in a warm glow. “The day is young, and it seems full of promise.”
The quiet rhythm of Dustreach’s early morning was abruptly broken. The sound of pounding hooves echoed through the narrow, dusty lanes between the stone buildings, growing rapidly louder. A lone rider, clad in practical, travel-stained leather armor bearing a simple, unadorned sigil that ProlixalParagon didn’t immediately recognize but had a certain stark, official quality, galloped into the open area near the center of the village where the Vermillion Troupe had made their camp. Dust kicked up behind the horse’s hooves, momentarily obscuring the colorful vardo wagons.
The rider, a burly human with a stern, weathered face, pulled his mount to a jarring halt, the horse snorting and stamping. He held a rolled-up parchment tied with a crimson ribbon. Several villagers, who had been beginning their day's tasks or were perhaps drawn by the commotion, stopped and stared with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. ProlixalParagon, who had just been considering how best to approach Lyra with the news of Marx’s agreement [previous turn], paused near the edge of the troupe’s encampment, his large, rotating ears swiveling to take in the unfolding scene.
The rider cleared his throat, his voice loud and carrying in the morning air, accustomed to being heard over distances. “Hear ye! Hear ye! By order of Lord Elmsworth, Warden of the Southern Marches!” His voice boomed, commanding the attention of all present in the vicinity. He then proceeded to unroll the parchment with a deliberate flourish, the crimson ribbon dangling.
“A Proclamation!” he declared, his gaze sweeping over the gathered villagers and the members of the Vermillion Troupe who were now emerging from their wagons, their expressions ranging from mild interest to wary concern. Lyra, her silver fur catching the pale sunlight, stepped forward slightly, her golden eyes sharp and observant.
The messenger began to read the proclamation in a clear, authoritative voice, the words stark and uncompromising against the backdrop of the quiet village:
“By decree of Lord Elmsworth, appointed by His Majesty King Dunstan, to ensure the stability and survival of the Southern Marches in these times of uncertainty, let all within Dustreach and the surrounding territories heed this decree! Due to unforeseen circumstances and the need to preserve vital resources for the continued prosperity of the realm, strict rationing of all foodstuffs is hereby imposed, effective immediately.
Furthermore, be it known that the hoarding of food, in any quantity beyond what is reasonably required for the sustenance of one’s immediate household for a period not exceeding three days, is deemed a capital offense. Any individual or individuals found to be in violation of this decree shall be subject to the severest penalty.
The punishment for food hoarding, upon conviction by the appointed local authorities, shall be hanging. Let this serve as an unequivocal warning to all. Vigilance is expected, and any information regarding the unlawful accumulation of foodstuffs should be reported forthwith to the village overseer or the Warden’s appointed representatives. By order of Lord Elmsworth, Warden of the Southern Marches. Let the word be spread!”
The messenger concluded his reading with a final, resonant pronouncement, then rolled the parchment back up and secured it with the crimson ribbon. A heavy silence descended upon the gathered villagers and the Vermillion Troupe. The cheerful sounds of children’s laughter ProlixalParagon had heard upon his return were now absent, replaced by a palpable tension.
ProlixalParagon felt a knot of unease tighten in his chest. This decree had significant implications for everyone, not least the traveling Vermillion Troupe who likely carried supplies for their journey. He glanced at Lyra, whose expression was thoughtful, her ears slightly flattened, a sign of concern. The goblins of the troupe, usually quick with a chirping remark or a mischievous grin, were unusually quiet, their multifaceted eyes wide as they looked from the messenger to the stern faces of the Dustreach villagers.
This proclamation seemed to directly relate to the theme of strict laws and food shortages in a border settlement mentioned in the plot timeline. The reference to a local noble enforcing these laws, with food hoarding as a capital offense punishable by hanging, mirrored the information he had briefly glimpsed. It appeared that Dustreach was indeed the setting for such a conflict, and the Vermillion Troupe had arrived at a particularly volatile time.
Lyra exchanged a look with Nara, a silent communication passing between them. Nara’s brow was furrowed with worry, and she subtly gestured towards the wagons where their food supplies were stored. The practicality of dwarven cuisine, rooted in self-sufficiency and preservation, came to ProlixalParagon’s mind, and he wondered how other races and cultures within Ludere Online managed their food stores and traditions. The Vermillion Troupe, being nomadic, likely had their own methods of managing and transporting provisions.
The reactions among the Dustreach villagers were varied. Some wore expressions of grim acceptance, perhaps accustomed to the harsh realities of life on the border of the Draggor Kingdom. Others exchanged nervous glances, and ProlixalParagon could sense an undercurrent of anxiety. The mention of reporting suspected hoarders could easily breed suspicion and mistrust within the small community.
The messenger remained on his horse for a moment, his gaze still sweeping over the crowd as if daring anyone to question the proclamation. Then, with a curt nod to a few of the more prominent-looking villagers, he wheeled his horse around and galloped away, the sound of his hooves fading into the distance as quickly as they had arrived. The crimson ribbon on the discarded piece of sky-blue parchment lying near where he had read the decree seemed a stark symbol of the harsh new reality imposed upon Dustreach. The lively performance and children's laughter ProlixalParagon had encountered earlier now felt like a distant memory in the face of Lord Elmsworth's chilling proclamation.
>Faction Quest Obtained {Draggor}: Long arm of the law - Gather information on, and report any information regarding the unlawful accumulation of food in DustReach or surrounding areas of the southern marches. Rewards: Variable<
