The fog still hung heavily in the air despite the grey shimmer of the morning behind it. It would burn off eventually, but only once the sun was high over the Vale of Anvraes. Then the shroud would lift for a few hours before once more setting in with the coming of night. Such was the way of things in the Duchy of Banjurdim. It’s capital, Anvraeda, so named for it’s surroundings and more specifically the long lake it stood at the end of was seen in many ways by many people. Gloomy, spooky, mysterious, these were often words used by outsiders who seldom, if ever, actually set foot in the area. However, those who had occasion to frequent the settlement on a regular basis or were native to it tended to see if as cozy, safe, and comfortable. Whichever way it was described, there was no mistaking it’s value.

Two thirds of the way down the spine of Flajerek, the Krastuval Peaks, it stood at one end of the Igmur Pass, the only reliable way through the mountains for three days in either direction. As a east-west trade route, there was no other that was as essential as it. However, despite the gold invested in it and the three forts that guarded the part that fell within Banjurdim’s borders, the road west was not without risk either natural or manmade. There was still the occasional rockslide that needed to be cleared and both bandit as well as beast could be found up there. Still, complain as they might over a tankard at The Seven Spokes, teamsters still travelled it regularly but for the two months of the year snow blocked the way.

That said, if it were only that which brought wagons on long barges across the water, the place might not have as many envious eyes upon it as it did. However it wasn’t. An iron mine south of town produced enough ore not only to make them self-sufficient in that regard but also allowed for some export of the metal. The real prize though, didn’t lie in rocks. Rather it lay in the deep forests which loomed over the sides of Lach Anvrae and many of the small villages nearby. The lush canopy of green grew heavy with Mountain Maple. The duchy was the only place they grew naturally and it was seen as some of the finest of wood among carpenters in the kingdom and beyond.

Yes, the valley was home to Jalveraen Abbey and the tree shepherds that were the priests of Verdycantha. And yes, they worked wonders accelerating the growth of saplings into mature trees. But it was still a material with not nearly enough supply to meet demand, hence it’s price. To be sure, more than one had tried to plant the species in other locations, but they didn’t grow as high nor did the quality of the grain in them hold true. Locals tended to derisively dismiss the furnishings made from those as being built from ‘Molehill Maple’. And collectors did likewise. All of this, all of it, should have spelt long term prosperity for Banjurdim and Clan Gurlaanger which ruled over it ... Should have. But the past few days had seen change; which was why he, Menderith Skarn, had been sent to this place.