Your legs tremble as the earth beneath you writhes and dips, trees jump and stretch past you as the grey clouds above bombard the landscape, seemingly from all directions. You find your neck and shoulders venture around an elusive circle, rotating on your hip about its circumference, leaping from side to side when it seems fit.

The world has been in this state of perpetual motion for well over two hours now, and the less patient among you are likely tiring of its intricate repetition over this time. The pseudo ground on which your feet rest is damp and littered with spoiled goods and discarded miscellaneous, the nails holding it together rusted. This concoction of smells; rusted iron; damp oak; rotten apples. It feels your complacent senses.

Among the party are strangers, a hooded human, male and aged. Betwixt his fingers is a spark of flame, which he comforts with his overhanging cowl and cupped hands. He has been silent thus far. Another sits cross legged, a dwarf of ginger hair and pale skin, fine rings but tattered clothes dress his body, a groomed beard hides his chin.

The dwarf whistles occasionally, miners tunes. A minor irritation should it have gone on too long, though it hasn't thanks to the complaint of the last unknown individual. Another human, young and spindly, various tattoos adorn his thin arms and scars worn proudly amidst the hide clothing. This one was far from silent, sparking what conversation he could with the driver, though his hoarse voice was barely audible over the crashing rain.

Now, as Barkholt comes into the distance, he speaks to the group as whole. Through gritted teeth as the cart is dragged along the rocky road, he asks “So, what brings you all to Mirkland?”