For generations, tales of short, stocky men and that coveted, beautiful metal they were always associated with, mithril, have rung in the ears of children and inked the yellowed pages of ancient tomes. None today believed them to ever have been true, the silvery bluish heirlooms and artifacts which dotted the oldest of families in this city being dismissed as simply some form of enchanted silver. None, that is, except for you. You claim to have found the very mine from which, eons ago, the earthy dwarves mined their precious metal. Through luck, determination, and a bit of money from a source you would not care to mention, you have assembled a rag-tag group of 20 peasants, scroungers, and ne'er-do-goods with nothing better to do, along with just enough supplies to establish a small mining outpost at the foot of a small mountain overgrown with the intelligent trees of the Elven Wood.
Arrival to your destination, no greater then two weeks afterward, bodes well for the foundations of your settlement. A natural spring burbles nearby, and the trees, though not particularly welcoming, seem to be willing to tolerate your presence for the time being. After a small bit of searching, you discover the collapsed ruins you search for, barely recognizable as such, overgrown with thick roots and shrubby, flowery growth. You decide that this is as good a spot as any to begin setting up.
Ye Known World