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In the Stony Hills, ‘trouble’ is a word to set brows wrinkling, eyebrows raising, tongues wagging and heads shaking. Sure, there are always problems— goblins breed like rats and need regular culling, or any too-tall human sellsword down on his luck might try a turn at banditry, perhaps a wolf or two gain a taste for lambs, and there’s always some political tangle between Harrfoot and Stout, Stout and Dwarf, Harrfoot and Dwarf, or all three squabbling simultaneous.

But trouble? Real trouble? That’s a thing far from Stony Hills and far from the heart of any decent halfling. Mind flock, field, home and hearth, and let trouble pass on its unhappy way.

But supposing trouble stops in for a visit and won’t take ‘good evening’ for a hint? What’s a halfling to do?

Well, that’s the question then, for seems as trouble’s made himself at home and has gotten into the pantries, and he’ll just keep at it til the larders lay bare unless someone something less than polite can come along and invite mister trouble to be out and along to human lands where he belongs!

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