The town of Ironholt is sometimes referred to as 'the outstretched hand of dwarven industry and commerce' by the more high-minded merchants and scholars of Veropa. Most of its permanent residents are of the opinion that anyone shaking said hand will need a wash afterwards.

The town's raison d'etre is the steady two-way flow of wagons and barges between the Southern Heights and the plains and forests of Ardale and Ramela. Virtually every commercial enterprise in the entire city revolves around them, the more successful entrepreneurs living off their accumulated funds through the winter and the rest commuting back uphill to the more prosperous uplands; estimates vary, but the town council reckon that somewhere between one-third and half the town's population is made up of seasonal migrant workers when the caravans are running, and most of those who remain are employed by the public sector. The fact that such a massive chunk of its population up sticks for the Mountainhome as soon as the money dries up is probably symptom and cause of Ironholt being such a complete and utter dump.

Ironholt occupies a narrow pass at the base of the Southern Heights, straddling both the river Mistel and the highway built by the Ardalan Empire under Cetis the Unbending during the Age of Expansion. It was once an important garrison town, part of the Royal Estate from the reign of Bomrek the 3rd until it was granted a city charter shortly after the passing of the Third Reform Act, and the 95th Regiment of Foot retain freedom of the city for their role in repelling the Ardalan invasion force. That was probably the last time anything interesting ever happened in Ironholt.

-- from A Traveller's Guide To Veropa by Lord Roderick D'Arcy, third edition.

Sven put his Traveller's Guide down and took a sip of tea. That wasn't entirely fair on this place, he reckoned. Some of the architecture was actually rather beautiful, decorated heavily with green microcline from the local deposits, and Ironholt did boast some moderately nice taverns. The Ardalan intelligentsia could be a parochial bunch sometimes.
The tavern crowd all seemed to be waiting on the caravan the way he was. They were quite a mix, mostly artesans or merchants, with a handful of young men and women off to seek their fortune -or at least somewhere to lay their hat that wasn't Ironholt- and a small theatre troupe heading out on tour.
Sven himself was none of the above, having just retired from thirty years with a Pioneer company and found himself at something of a loose end. After exhausting the points of interest in dwarven lands that he'd only glimpsed in passing on his way to strike the earth at some promising new coal seam or some such, he'd negotiated a year's advance on his pension in order to venture into the rest of Veropa, and maybe figure out what to do with his twilight years along the way.
"Next caravan leaves in ten minutes!" someone called out. Sven put away the book, drained his mug and slung his pack, finding himself eager to be on the road once more.

Obtaining passage usually took some negotiating, but there was seldom a shortage of room. Most of the wagons were so big and heavily-laden that the weight of three or four travelers and their possessions was barely noticeable, so the drivers rarely charged more than a token fee, and tradition had it that helping load and unload the wagon got you free passage as far as the next town. Sven found himself in the back of a small covered wagon full of ornaments and stoneware carved from mason's offcuts, along with a young journeyman carpenter called Bill, who cheerfully admitted to having left home in a bit of a hurry. "Woman trouble?" Sven enquired sympathetically.
"Nah, just a a disagreement with a young man who spilled my beer and decided to haul off and swing for me when I gave him a bollocking."
"Have a rich dad, did he?"
"Dunno. He ran off when the tavern exploded."
Sven regarded his new-found traveling companion with mixed horror and admiration. "You don't do bar brawls by halves, do you?"
"It wasn't me who dropped a lantern down the cellar steps," Bill replied primly. "But I'm sure you can see why I chose to be elsewhere when the sheriff turned up, it being his local and all."
This augurs for an eventful journey, Sven reflected. For better or worse.
A third traveler scrambled up into the wagon and perched on a crate, dropping her pack with relief. "Finally!" she exclaimed. "Thought I'd have to wait for the next caravan. Oh, how rude of me. I'm Eliza Steelbolt."
"Sven Darkheim, and this is Bill McKenna, destroyer of pubs."
Bill made a noise of disgust as Eliza burst out laughing. "Oh, I have got to hear the story behind that!"
Eliza herself turned out to be an aspiring Pioneer, traveling north to brush up on her languages, and was greatly impressed to learn that Sven had been one himself. "It's not as exciting as it looks from the outside," he cautioned, "but striking the earth for a new settlement, paving the way for some young family's hopes and dreams... That never stops being rewarding. Hell of a lot more interesting than actually trying to make it work, anyway," he chuckled. "You end up staying in some miserable bloody lodgings, though; there was this one caravanserai on the way to old Reinhammer where we ended up pitching the tents indoors, the roof leaked so bad."
"I'm not worried; Dad left me his old army tent and bedroll."
"That's another thing to watch out for; if your kit's any better than average, some bugger'll try and have a lend of it every five minutes. Company-issue stuff's usually better than what you can buy retail on a Pioneer's starting pay anyway. Here, take a look." He reached into the special pocket sewn into his pack, and extracted his Universal Prospector's Tool, the emblematic double-headed combination hatchet and pickaxe -better known as a 'pickchet'- carried by dwarven settlers everywhere. "Got handed that when I completed my training, before you were born I suspect. Thirty years of hard use it's had, though you'd hardly know it."
"Hey, I think that's one of ours! My grandad might have made that with his own hands; he does a lot of work for Bronwen Murphy."
Sven snapped his fingers. "Hah! I knew I'd heard the name somewhere before. We dug Steelbolt and Sons a warehouse extension in my first year; I carved my initials into one of the roof pillars."

The rain kicked in an hour after leaving, and they made bad time as the bigger wagons were forced to slow down. "Bloody weather," Bill grumbled.
"Should've gone south," Sven agreed. "See that lot?" He gestured to the slowly-receding mountains. "Biggest rain-shadow for about a thousand leagues; this place is basically a dumping ground for all the shitty weather we can't fit in up in the Mountainhome."
"So that's why the elves hate us so much."

The caravan reached the city of Mistelside at sunset, some hours behind time and extremely damp, which did nothing to make the city look more attractive. Mistelside was nominally part of the Republic of Ramela, the loose federation of autonomous elven city states sprawling across whatever bits of Veropa the Ardalans had failed to conquer and the dwarves didn't want, but its importance as a seaport meant it was one of the most cosmopolitan places on the continent. It also meant that Mistelside's population had overtaken the city council's ability to provide adequate law-enforcement and clean water, especially since most of its inhabitants were either too poor to be worth taxing or rich enough to employ really clever accountants.
"Never let it be said that the elves can't compete with us in any area they choose, if they apply themselves," Sven remarked. "Especially when it comes to building complete and total fucking shitholes. I was hoping we'd be a few miles further on; we're stuck here overnight now."
"If it's got somewhere I can get a hot meal and a bed for the night I shan't complain," Bill replied.
"Don't bet on that."
"Not complaining, or not getting a meal and a bed?"
"Aye," Sven replied mysteriously.

There were brawls under way in four of the five coaching inns outside the city gates, spectacularly messy ones with more sides than participants. It seemed to be a traditional form of local bar entertainment around here, like darts or skittles in more civilised parts of the world. The fifth seemed to have a less volatile crowd, and Sven edged his way to the bar and ordered hot ginger wine and a bowl of soup. "Rotten blurry day fer travelin', innit?" the bartender remarked.
"Aye. Least I was on a covered wagon though," Sven replied, fishing his Traveler's Guide out of his pack. "Wonder what D'Arcy has to say about this place?" he wondered aloud.
"Naught but a pack a' lies, chum."
"Perhaps, but my old grandad used to say you can learn a lot by what a man's enemies call him. Admittedly all I've learned so far is that Lord Roderick D'Arcy is as much of a pompous cunt as you'd expect with a name like that, but the principle's sound."
Sven's drink arrived a few moments later, and he sipped it as he read the book. A few moments later, he became aware of ribald laughter at a nearby table, apparently directed at himself.
"You need a few extra cushions?" someone young, male and intoxicated called out. Sven responded only with frosty, dignified silence. "Oi, shortarse, I'm talking to you!"
"Well watch your bloody mouth then, boy, before I fetch you a right smack upside the head!" Sven snapped, turning to glare at the young man.
Who had been showing off for a pack of his mates, to Sven's complete lack of surprise. All six of them immediately stood up and tried to look menacing, which would have worked rather better without the acne and the swaying. Bunch of daft wee boys beating their chests for the lasses, and half-pissed at that. Probably run like buggery if their mum walked in, Sven thought dismissively.
"I'm going to say this very slowly and use small words for you," he growled. "Piss right off, now, or I'll do you harm. Got it?"
The shortest one lunged. Sven caught his wrist and headbutted the boy in the solar plexus, then slid off his stool and drew the blade at his side before the others could react.
The traditional Pioneer's Backsword can best be described as the bastard offspring of a cutlass and a machete, relying as much on sheer weight as the edge for its effectiveness. Scholars claimed they could always tell a Pioneer company had been pressed into the line of battle by the mass graves for all the severed limbs.
"I'm not telling you again," Sven said coldly.
"You stupid buggers bleed all over me nice clean floor and yer barred," the bartender added mildly, idly polishing a glass.
The five young toughs still standing exchanged looks, and mutually decided that chancing a few scars to brag about was one thing, but going up against someone with a proper weapon that he knew how to use was quite another. They lifted their fallen comrade to his feet, silenced his half-hearted protests, and departed at the fastest nonchalant walk Sven had ever seen.
"Kids, eh?" he remarked. "We weren't that daft when we were their age, were we?"
"Nah," the barman laughed. "Course, I coulda taken yer down one-handed back then."
"Aye, right!"

Sven enquired about rooms for the night, and was directed to a lodging-house a few doors down. It was a weathered-looking building with paint peeling from the sign and an ominous brown stain on the doorstep, and the sounds of vigorous sexual intercourse were drifting from an upstairs window.
Sven shrugged. It wasn't the worst place he'd ever kipped by a long chalk, and it didn't look like it'd cost much for one night. He ventured inside, to be greeted by the sounds of still more vigorous sexual intercourse that did not sound mutually enjoyable.
Feeling a horrible suspicion he'd become the victim of a practical joke, Sven made his way into the parlour. It turned out to be full of desperate-looking women as weatherbeaten as the building itself, attired in clothing that would have flattered the figure of someone who'd eaten a decent meal recently, and an assortment of males conducting business transactions with them.
"Oh, bloody hell," Sven said to himself, with some feeling.