The guards wave you through with nods of appreciation, their gazes set harder on the horizon than before, more alert.

Drellin's Ferry isn't much of a town - it might have perhaps 500 residents total in the town proper, plus perhaps as many on outlying farms and cottages. Despite its prominent position on the Dawn Way, trade goes through the town, it doesn't stay in the town, and this is barely more than a stopover for most travelers. It's certainly no hub of activity. Still, its quaint rural charm can't be denied. The threat of encroaching hobgoblins hasn't kept people in their homes; rather the Green has lines of market stalls around the edge, the doors to the taverns are open with the sounds of chatter bubbling out, and children playing around the great central tree. The guards on the edges of town allow - for now - a more peaceful existence.

The largest and sturdiest building (dwarven built, if your eyes don't mistake you) stands at the foot of where the bridge used to be. The Toll House, once upon a time, now clearly converted into a place not of business but instead of administration. Just across the way is a small, squat watch tower, manned by similarly garbed guards from before, their eyes set on the horizon, though half of them seem more interested in lazily enjoying the summer sun than actually keeping watch.

Just as you're walking into the Toll House, you're bumped into by a tall balding man of perhaps 50 years, followed by a taller-still woman in armour with a blade at her hip. They look somewhat taken aback, but quickly recover. "The adventurers I presume? We were just coming to see you. Come in, come in." He ushers you inside, and you get a better look at the interior. It seems it serves not just as a town hall, but through open doors you spot jail cells, bunk beds, and a few guards playing cards. Upstairs and across a landing, the pair take you into a small office, decorated primarily with woodcarvings and textiles - local fare, rather than anything from the big city. Whether he planned for your arrival or not, there are adequate seats for all six in the room to take a chair.

From his hands and gait, you can judge the man is unlikely to have committed much in the way of physical labour, yet the lines of work have clearly set into his aged face and salt-and-pepper beard. He speaks with a calm tenor, the measured words of someone who has had to placate customers and negotiate prices. "Introductions first, I think. I am Norro Wiston, Speaker for Drellin's Ferry, and this," he gestures to the red-headed soldier at his side, perhaps ten or twenty years his junior, "is Soranna Anitah, Captain of the Guard. I'll get right to the point: We are in a lot of trouble, and I was hoping to persuade you to help."

He takes a deep breath, before continuing. "I believe you've already encountered them, but our town is under attack. Hobgoblin raiders have been harrying our lands for several days now. Some of the outlying homesteads have been burned down and their occupants killed, and they've been attacking travelers - like yourselves."
Soranna pipes up, her voice rough with the edge of command. "We've had some trouble with them before - a raid here, a robbery there, but this...is different. It's too frequent, and almost too many of them. If they're not dealt with I'm worried that it will embolden other nearby tribes, and they'll have enough manpower to take the town." Norro nods in agreement, adding with undisguised concern: "Furthermore, the road is our lifeblood - if people stop traveling the Dawn Way for fear of hobgoblin attacks, our town will die a slow death just as surely as it would from an actual raid. So...can you help?"