The gate that rose straight from the cliff face became a peculiar tale, passed along by merchant caravans until it was common gossip in the dockside taverns.
To the common laborers and dockhands of Gray Bay, the name Velin Klein gradually became synonymous with food and a chance at survival.
The number of people who answered the call was no longer in the hundreds.
Fueled by both the legend and this exponential word-of-mouth, the influx of people heading for the Grey Marsh Territory swelled into a torrent within a week.
The line in front of the makeshift registration office stretched for miles. From unemployed dockworkers of the Seven Ports Alliance to inland tenant farmers who could no longer make a living, everyone gathered here, with their families in tow.
The nine clerks at the registration office worked in three shifts around the clock, and their wrists were swollen from the constant writing.
