A Day in the Minoc Hills

Swung the pickaxe under a sky of shifting grey, each strike ringing true through the stone bones of the hills. Twelve turns, and the ore gave up its secrets—eleven and a third ingots hauled from the earth, heavy in my arms. Delivered the lot to Tormund12, who nodded like the mountain itself—silent, satisfied. Dust in my throat, but the work was good.