After months of travel and exploration of the small island of Scara Brae, the prodigal son had returned. It was not a return marked with as much fanfare or excitement as Preston Fletcher had expected though. Indeed, it was as if nobody had known he was gone or cared that he had returned. For the young man, it was a deflating feeling. His father and older brother had both continued to mind the family store and barely paid him mind when he returned to tell them of his adventures. Upset, Preston had left to wander the market.

He found himself in the smaller, less frequented parts of the grand Bazaar of Radasanth. Unlike the main thoroughfare, with elaborate stalls and ornate items selling to discriminate buyers, the side streets were more lackadaisical. They had a certain laissez-faire feel that Preston found endearing. The cobblestones were more worn and grimier, with potholes at odd intervals filled with dirty rainwater from the showers the night before. The pathway was still plenty wide enough for a steady flow of foot traffic and the occasional carriage, but was maintained by the merchants, restauranteur, and other business owners instead of the city.

As he wandered, he had found himself looking for something. In Scara Brae he had established connections for future business, from lumber to fine weapons. Coming back to Radasanth was a part of his plan to find a way to export those goods, and he needed to establish that trade, but it required capital and a lot of it. Finally, he found himself approaching a merchant’s window and waving politely to a stout dwarf with a large pipe almost hanging from his mouth. The broad shoulders of the shop-keep turned away from Preston and back towards the unassuming guard leaning against the wall.

“Fine day we’re having,” the boy said with an even tone and a forced smile. Both the dwarf and the guard turned, as if bothered by the intrusion, and stared flatly. “Might I have a moment of your time?”

“You call this Thayne damned weather fine?” The guard said with a snicker, pulling a toothpick from his yellow-tinted teeth as he ran his tongue across them. “Non-stop rain all night and then just enough sun the next day to make it humid as all Haidia.”

He nudged his dwarven companion with an elbow and chuckled, shaking his head and sighing. “Well,” Preston continued, his smile quickly becoming more of a forced necessity instead of genuine. “You see, I have a proposition for you and your shop. How would you like to be the exclusive retailer of the work of a master smithy?” With that, Preston began to quickly spin a tale of his adventures and the smith he had met, dramatically attempting to woo them into partnership.