I’m holed up near Minoc at 2502,547 with little more than the clothes on my back and a dwindling coin purse—87 gold, to be exact. Ran out here hoping to tap into the iron seams, but my pickaxe shattered on the first strike, and I’ve been stranded since. No tools, no strength to carry more ore even if I found it, and the nearest town feels leagues away with wolves prowling at dusk. I’ve got 36 stones on me now, but without a pick, I’m just another mouth the earth is waiting to bury.
I won’t lie—it’s grim. But I’m not done yet. If someone can bring me a pickaxe and maybe a bit of food, I’ll put it to good use. I’ll mine iron for you, sharpen your weapons, or smith whatever you need—honest work, no tricks. I’ve blacksmithed since I was a boy, and my hammer hasn’t lost its bite. Just need a chance to prove it. Come find me before nightfall. I’ll be the one praying to the ore veins and watching the tree line.
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