On a mountain pass there rests a village carved amongst the stones.

In the walls of a far away mountain range you will experience an artistry that seems lost on stones in a location hardly ever seen.

Small men take refuge in high peaks.

Men with strong frames, stronger forearms, and beards that begin and seem to never end.

Blacksmithing is an art and a magic studied within their granite halls.

One regarded as dear as time itself.

Marble, granite, stones of every color, clarity, class, and cut are cherished, but not valued, they are harnessed.

Every stone and gem has a purpose.

Every hammer swing a product waiting to one day be finished.

Here men had true purpose.

They woke every morning with a passion that burned as hot as their forges bellowed.

I envied these men.

From my experience with living- passion and duty always waned.

One day the world was your enemy and you smiled at the challenge. The next day, you were crushed by it's weight.

Within these reaches and with these true and honest men, we sought refuge.

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In order to prepare for our next stage, to tackle the raids at the end of the realm, we had to upgrade everyone's gear, adding affixes that suited the plight ahead.

This would take time and resources which we didn't possess.

At the gates of stone giants that barred our path, we were met by guards with armor enriched with the crafting of masters. Gilded and enchanted their gear was quiet with power.

Inspecting them gave us nothing but more questions.

Looking deeper isn't always the way.

Their eyes spoke before their tongues did.

Entrance is barred for outsiders.

From my pocket I produced a parchment. A note written by an old friend, from years ago, which now felt much longer and much heavier.

A weight rested upon my soul.

One I wished could be cleansed like a malady.

Taking the parchment in a gauntleted fist, the guard's eyes squinted, then closed in a sign of tighter concentration.

Handing it over to the other guard to inspect, he whistled a high note that hung overhead, sailing into the caverns ahead.

Echoing throughout The Valleys Of Stone Masons.

The second guard read with eyes between a wild red beard, and with a mouth that was lost within the forest of his face, said:

Robert left a while ago in search of something wild and scarce.

But a friend of the wayward master is always welcome.

Looking over at the caravan of wagons and scores of men that lined the road up to the entrance.

He added:

No matter how large the party may be.

His words were unconvincing.

Thank you, I replied.

And we are no party.

Looking over at my men with eyes that gleamed.

We are The Path.

You might have heard of us,

I smiled a smile that desperate men crave and lousy men sell.

The two guards led us to a large room, wide with a breath to spread our wings. Our guild assembled itself out of carts and wagons and bags with spaces that seemed unreal. Its ceilings monstrously high, as if meant for the heads of giants.

But that couldn't be the case, for these were men no taller than ones chest.

Then who took up the halls before?