The group of three stumbled through the forest more than they ran. In the hollow of a stream, they threw themselves to the ground, pressing against the knee-high embankment. The stream was low after many days without rain, so the spot where they lay was only slightly damp.

Hurried footsteps, the breaking of branches and rapid breathing followed them. Then the pursuers stopped just a few steps from their hiding place. There was silence for a few heartbeats. Then they heard an annoyed voice: "Where are they?"

"No idea. Can any of you read tracks?"

The three could not hear an answer in their hiding place, presumably the answer consisted of a gesture.

A brief discussion ensued, which the three could only partially follow. Then their pursuers stomped off.

They waited until nothing could be heard and then a few more minutes. Bernd carefully peered over the edge of the embankment. Then he said quietly, "Okay, they're gone."

Darken stood up and felt his damp robes. Fleetfoot pulled a short stick from a belt loop and directed a drying pale red glow at each in turn. In an instant, their clothes and the ground they were about to lay on were dry.

They sat down cross-legged in a triangle. Darken looked from one to the other: "All right, what have we actually found out now?"

Fleetfoot counted off facts on her fingers: "Firstly, the revenants who have taken over the farm belong to a group. I'd say it's one of the largest new guilds.

Secondly, they do not wear guild badges, crests or other identifying marks. So, they probably have something to hide.

Thirdly, they have converted the farm into a slaughterhouse and the shed into a smokehouse, where they mass produce travel rations. Dried meat, smoked sausage and long-life fruit bars.

Fourthly, there are a lot of men and women working on the farm who don't look particularly happy. I've seen the same faces in the morning as just before sunset. They easily work for ten to twelve hours straight.

Fifth: They don't like it when someone tries to talk to one of their workers."

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Darken and Bernd nodded. Darken put the thought they both had into words: "You could say that. They came straight at us with their weapons drawn without saying anything."

Bernd rubbed his short beard: "I think they were NPCs. No player lets himself be treated that badly. Not even for gold."

Fleetfoot agreed with him: "Exactly. But why the effort?"

Darken spread his arms: "Easy. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of heroes have appeared around here. Groups are constantly heading north to explore the land, scout out trade routes, visit other cities or complete quests. To do this, they need provisions. They can find bread rolls and the like everywhere, but really durable food is hard to find. Here they have divided their products into daily portions and wrapped them in wax paper. Travel rations."

Bernd looked up: "Wait a minute... I ate a cheese roll at the inn yesterday."

Darken raised an eyebrow, "How is that relevant now?"

"Well, because there was no more honey bread. The waiter said honey was hard to come by at the moment."

Darken refrained from whistling through his teeth. The sound would have been heard too far through the forest. Like the others, he continued in a low voice: "You're right. If we investigate in town, we're sure to find out that someone has robbed a few of the local beehives. Honey for the fruit bars and wax for wax paper."

"Is it worth it?"

"Let's take the usual group of adventurers. Five men, two weeks on the road. That would be 70 rations. Normal food would be far too heavy to carry, you'd need special packets like this. The cuboid shape alone means it takes up much less space than other food. The alternative would of course be a bag of holding, which preserves the food immediately. But they are practically unaffordable. I haven't seen a single one of them on sale yet."

Fleetfoot shrugged her shoulders: "Let's wait until this Wandering Emporium reopens. I'm sure the Mage Academy won't be sitting idle either."

Darken made an uncertain gesture with his hand, "I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for artifacts to hit the market. They need gems and magical woods and other materials for that. For Bags of Holding, they usually take leather from the skin of monsters at least journeyman level. Everything that has been sold so far comes from leftover stocks and the last supplies of monster skins."

The warrior looked around the forest: "This is all very interesting, but what do we do now? Do we go back to the city?"

The thief shook her head almost in sync with Darken. Darken answered first: "No. We effectively know no more than we did before. We don't know how the NPCs were persuaded to work here. They could be refugees who are happy to have a job like this. They may even be well paid." Darken raised his hand defensively when the other two opened their mouths: "Not that I believe that. But at the moment we have no evidence that they are criminals."

"Then why were they chasing us?"

"That's not proof. I mean, of course they're criminals. They might as well put up a sign saying 'League of Evil' or something. The AI is supposed to be pretty strict when it comes to exploiting NPCs. They must have been ripped off somehow. Same with the farmer. Let's go look for him."

Fleetfoot nodded: "That's right. If he was deceived, we have our proof and can officially search the courtyard together with the city guard."