I'm holed up just outside Minoc at 2461,451, and I’ll not lie—things are grim. My pickaxe is gone, likely shattered in the last tunnel collapse, and I’ve nothing to show for it but these four gold pieces and a back full of bruises. I can still hear the ore singing in the stone down below, but without a pick, I’m no better than a beggar with calloused hands. I’ve got fifty-four stones on me already—mostly scrap iron and a bit of copper I pried out with a knife—but I can’t carry much more, and I sure as forge-fire can’t dig without tools.
If someone’s passing near Minoc and can spare a pickaxe, I’ll make it worth your steel. I’ll smith you a weapon, armor, or repair your gear—no charge. I’ve worked the bellows since I was a lad, and my hammer’s still true. Just leave the pick at the edge of the ridge near the old mine trail, or meet me there. I’ll wait till dusk. I’m not asking for charity—just a chance to earn my way back on my feet.
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