Three days after the Fenwolf siege...
Ashfang Hollow was no longer just a patch of cursed dirt—it was a fortress in the making.
The walls had grown. With timber from nearby groves and bone from slain beasts, Gorak and Drask erected spiked barriers. Traps now lined the ridges. Watch-fires burned at night. And every drop of blood spilled during the siege had been repaid in fortification.
But what they lacked, despite the bones and wood, was metal—iron for weapons, steel for reinforcement, and tools to shape the hollow into a true stronghold.
That's when the smoke came.
Not from fire. Not from battle. From a wagon—black-plumed and lazy—snaking its way toward the hollow across the cracked valley floor.
At the gates of Ashfang Hollow
The wagon was pulled by a beast Gorak had never seen before—a cross between a scaled lizard and a wooly bison. Its eyes glowed faintly with dull green luminescence, and its breath smoked in the cold air. The wagon itself was armored in black plates, reinforced with iron bolts and etched in strange sigils that shimmered against the light.
A hooded figure sat atop the driver's seat, cross-legged, sipping from a delicate porcelain cup as though he weren't deep in the wilds where death breathed between trees.
"Friend or foe?" Drask growled, one hand on his staff.
The figure didn't look up. "Depends on how deep your pockets are."
Gorak narrowed his eyes. "You're far from any trade route. What's your business in this cursed land?"
Finally, the traveler looked up.
His face was elven—sharp features, skin like sun-bleached parchment, one eye covered by a burn-scarred patch. His remaining eye was gleaming bronze, artificial, mechanical... magical.
"I am called Varn of the Black Iron Road. I follow no map, answer to no kingdom. I trade in places others dare not name."
He gestured, and the wagon sides folded outward like clockwork wings. Racks of weapons shimmered—black steel, bone-blades, enchanted charms, herbs pulsing with subtle magic, and crates sealed with red wax.
"I bring what the wild forgets," he continued. "And I ask only fair payment. Coin, relics... or information."
Drask grunted. "Sounds like a leech to me."
Varn chuckled, swirling his tea. "Leech? No. A leech takes without asking. I offer deals. Sometimes they bleed."
Gorak approached. "You trade with outlaws, monsters, and cursed lands?"
"Only where the risk matches the reward." Varn's smile widened. "And today, you're both."
[System Alert: Unique NPC Encounter – Varn, Black Iron Merchant]
Reputation Gained: +10 (Cautious Neutral)Available Trades: Resources, Weapons, Knowledge, Recruitment OptionsSpecial Offer Unlocked – "Founder's Bargain"
Gorak browsed the goods.
Among the usual steel and rope, his eye fell on a weapon: a double-headed axe with a jagged obsidian core and runes that pulsed faintly like living veins. Its edge shimmered with residual heat. The metal was too familiar.
He nodded at it. "This—where did you find it?"
Varn tapped the haft. "From the ruin of Mount Khrazz. Smelted in bloodfire. Fused with volcanic ore and a shard of cursed obsidian. I believe... it resembles yours."
Gorak's eyes narrowed.
His own axe, forged by hand with molten rock and dark iron during his exile, pulsed faintly at the mention—resonating.
"Same bloodline?" Gorak asked.
"Same forge," Varn said cryptically.
Drask tilted his head. "What does that mean?"
Varn looked at Gorak. "It means this one wasn't the only heir to the forge."
The air grew heavy.
Gorak's expression darkened. "Who else holds the mark?"
Varn simply raised his cup again. "That information is... not free."
Gorak's jaw clenched. "What's the price?"
"A future favor. One that may cost you blood... or kin."
Drask stepped forward. "Don't trust this bastard, Gorak. We can take the info from him if needed."
But Gorak raised a hand.
"No. He came here offering trade, not threats. And I won't start our rise with betrayal."
He looked at Varn. "Keep your secrets—for now. But I'll take steel, nails, and reinforcing brackets. Enough to build a gate strong enough to stop a troll."
"And the price?"
Gorak pulled something from his pouch: a Moonblood Crystal—the reward from the Alpha wolf, still glowing with cold lunar essence.
Varn's bronze eye gleamed. "Very acceptable."
[System Alert: Trade Complete]
- Moonblood Crystal+ Blacksteel Construction Set (x3)+ Fortified Gateframe Blueprint+ Favorable Reputation with Black Iron Merchant (15/100 – "Respected")+ Hint Unlocked: "The First Heir Wields the Emberbrand Spear"
Later that night...
The gate reinforcement began immediately.
Gorak oversaw every nail driven, every bolt secured. Drask summoned stone anchors from beneath the earth to stabilize the frame. Within hours, the entrance to Ashfang Hollow had transformed from crude barricade into a fortress gate—solid, imposing, and rune-inscribed.
Varn, meanwhile, remained by his wagon, scribbling into a black leather tome. He occasionally glanced at Gorak, a curious expression on his pale face.
Before departing, he left a note sealed with molten wax, pressed with a black iron insignia:
"The world is turning, Gorak of the Hollow. Others will rise. Some seek to claim your name. Others… your head. I'll return when the storm brews. Be ready."
The wagon vanished by morning.
No tracks remained. No scent. Just the faint smell of sulfur and tea.
Drask snorted as he looked over the empty field. "Creepy bastard. But his iron's real enough."
Gorak stood at the top of the Watchtower again, looking toward the north.
"We need to grow faster. Stronger."
Drask nodded. "What next? More warriors?"
Gorak didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he stared into the wind.
"No. First, we need our first vassal. A real ally."
To be continued...