The journey to Bree brought more answers than Atgar expected, though few of them offered comfort.
The matter of the stolen crate had long ceased to be a simple robbery.
What began as a break-in at his cookshop in Pickdean had first led to desperate refugees, and now to something far darker. The refugees had indeed taken the crate, mistaking it for food and supplies during their flight. Yet they had never been the true thieves. They had merely been unfortunate enough to cross paths with those who were.
Gathering companions willing to aid in the search, Atgar travelled to Bree to learn what he could of the strange wheel-and-dagger mark found upon a coin and brooch recovered during earlier investigations.
Their first stop was the Town Hall.
The Mayor received them courteously and listened to their account. Though he could offer little direct assistance, his words revealed a troubling pattern. Merchant complaints regarding delayed and missing caravans had become increasingly common in recent months. Worse still, several parchments upon a clerk's desk bore the same wheel-and-dagger mark that had become all too familiar.
Whether it was a threat, a warning, or evidence of deeper corruption, none could say.
The discovery left Atgar uneasy.
From there, the company sought the captain of Bree's guard.
The seasoned officer examined the marked coin carefully before recognition flickered across his face. He spoke of an old bandit group that once plagued the southern lands beyond Bree many years ago, a gang believed long destroyed. They too had used the symbol of a wheel crossed by daggers.
The captain could not recall their name, but he confessed a concern that lingered in his thoughts.
Someone, somewhere, might be attempting to revive their legacy.
That possibility settled heavily upon the group as they departed.
The next trail led them to the merchants of Bree.
Suspecting that Dwarven traders might know more, Atgar guided the investigation toward the Stone Quarter. There, among merchants and craftsmen, they found confirmation of their fears.
The thefts were not isolated incidents.
Dwarven warehouses had been robbed.
Caravans carrying Dwarven goods had vanished.
Trade routes had become increasingly dangerous.
One merchant, after some hesitation, shared a rumour often whispered in darker corners of the city.
The group responsible was said to call themselves the Greenway Knives.
At last, the enemy had a name.
The revelation brought a strange sense of satisfaction, though it did little to lessen the threat.
By evening, the company gathered within the warmth of the Prancing Pony to discuss what they had learned.
Atgar saw to it that mugs were filled and spirits lifted. His companions had earned at least that much.
As plans were discussed, even the inn staff had stories to share. Rough-looking southerners had been seen drinking alone in shadowed corners, keeping to themselves and avoiding unwanted attention.
Individually, such tales meant little.
Together, however, they painted a worrying picture.
By night's end, several truths had emerged.
The Greenway Knives were real.
Their activities centered upon the lands south of Bree.
Dwarven merchants and trade routes appeared to be particular targets.
Someone was invoking the legacy of an older bandit group for reasons yet unknown.
And perhaps most troubling of all, signs of their influence had appeared within Bree itself.
Whether through fear, corruption, or willing cooperation, the Knives had friends in places they should not.
The stolen crate bearing the mark of the Durin's Folk Trading Company was no longer the only concern.
Atgar now suspected it had simply been the first thread of a much larger knot.
Yet the path ahead left a bitter taste in his mouth.
The Town Hall had offered concern but few answers. The Guard shared his worries, but lacked the means to pursue them. Honest merchants had confirmed the threat, yet knew little of those responsible beyond rumours and whispers.
The trail now led somewhere Atgar would have preferred to avoid entirely.
The Spotless Note was no place for respectable business. Its patrons dealt in rumours, secrets and dealings best left unspoken. It was a place where smugglers, fences, sellswords and other dubious folk gathered beneath a roof that seemed to tolerate questions so long as one was prepared to pay for the answers.
Atgar had spent his life building an honest reputation through hard work, fair trade and the trust of his customers. Walking willingly into such a place sat poorly with him.
But stubbornness would not recover the stolen crate. Nor would pride protect the merchants who continued to suffer at the hands of the Greenway Knives.
If the answers could not be found among officials, guards or traders, then they would have to be sought elsewhere.
And so, despite his reservations, Atgar agreed to follow the trail into the shadows.
For now, he saw no other choice.
