pickdean

The hearth of the Pickdean cookshop had not burned so brightly in many weeks.

There are moments when patience must yield to resolve.

For the first time since his cookshop had been robbed, Atgar felt as though the company was no longer chasing shadows.

Buck had kept his word.

Atgar had never imagined that the trail of a stolen crate would lead him behind hidden curtains and into the company of smugglers, gamblers, and folk who preferred not to be known too well.

Yet there he sat, tankard in hand within the Spotless Note, a place respectable merchants rarely spoke of openly and honorable merchants rarely entered at all.

The dwarf found little comfort in it.