The dwarven caravan entered the silent courtyard of Hatchetminds, a thick miasma of rot filled their nostrils. To their left, the bloated corpse of a giant pink crocodile festered in the sun, to their left, the assorted bits and pieces of a fire breathing giant raven and some sort of undeterminate quadroped lay.
The charred corpse of a small rodent sat near the trade depot, still smoldering. The guild trader motioned silently, and all present put their hands on the hilts of their weapons. They prepared to flee at any moment.
A great shout could be heard, and in seconds, dozens of filthy, half-naked, scraggly urchins flew forth, bearing treasures unimaginable. Gold, platinum, silver, exotic gems, rare works of art, and piles, so many piles, of delicate sweetmeats, all of them daintily arranged in enormous bins for presentation. The vast orgy of consumerism continued for weeks on end as every last bauble created in the last year was paraded before the greedy eyes of the caravaneers. At the end of the bargain, everything delivered was purchased, and yet more lay hidden in the storehouses beneath. The one they knew as "The Manager" would make sure that even more was available the next year, under one simple quid pro quo.
Ah yes, Hatchetminds will have a countess this winter.